That October the moon shone incessantly,
though rarely detectable
between elevenses and high tea –
home to a man reclining inscrutably in the lap
of his own smile, high and wry
like a white horse munching runaway clover
at the foot of a sagging style.
After a while – a wayward fortnight of wind –
he waxed himself into
the rotundity of a buddha,
rubbing up his own sheer alabaster sheen.
That October the clocks
dragged their hands,
resisting change.
A still conservative wind
chilled the abandoned, rotten rape,
pecked at by a pair of orphaned swallows
in the damp privacy and mustard air
of the deserted departure lounge.
That October All Hallows had no eve
and the moon smeared its tears
with a cud-stained sleeve.
On heavy going,
the Cesarewitch cast her failed spell
over a cold cauldron.
When tomorrow came nobody noticed,
disguised as it was
in a high-waisted,
cream hessian macintosh.
Julian Isaacs
.