In frames as large as rooms that face all
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon,
Perpetually these sharply-pictured
Of how life should be.
High above the gutterA silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow,
Well-balanced families, in
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each
Stretches towards.
These, and the deep
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars(Gas or electric), quarter-profile
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and
They dominate outdoors.
Rather, they
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the
All such inhabit.
There, dark raftered
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the
Just missed them, as the pensioner paidA halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes'
To taste old age, and dying smokers
Walking towards them through some dappled
As if on water that unfocused
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
