Letter, February 2006

 An old age harder than you'd gambled on,
 You've lodged yourself the exile that you chose
 As concierge and châtelaine of Lou Jas
 And the novel where you bring bets to their close.

 Nearly blind now you're given guidance
 On how to read again, decline to mention
 You peeled the rhetorics of what we read,
 The palimpsests subscribing each invention.

 Your high-walled home fends off most neighbours now
 Who haven't read your work, though some have heard
 You've been professor, writer, maybe still
 Scanning the village for this deed, that word

 Just as you bricked me in this final novel,
 Walled me in well enough to risk the rift.
 In each new chapter-house the dean remains
...