Entrenched blue the
luminosity
of that English summer
barely stirred, a glow still
apart from bare memory, a
high-spirited
allegiance with valley & uplands, hoofbeats
on the paved road to Shipton-under-Wychwood
the unmistakable sky over the
nursery
at Swinbrook House appointed for second sons of
Saxon Lords the backbench weekenders
in the great accomplished house
the baying of hounds & breezy
the chatty good-tempered leaves
turning their silver undersides
in vacillating patterns across
the ceiling over her death bed, Muv, who wore
white freshly ironed sailor
suits
into her Victorian teens recalled
family's summers compressed
into one, & believed it sufficed
for
the unBritish heaven awaiting her,
the understaffed cosmic household
Farve warned disallowed
clever women. Their six daughters
betrayed from the start, bound for
hell with their white mice &
the menagerie, Farve’s pony brought home
for his daughters in a hansom cab, &
Muv’s goats, the bearded
ruffians,
the girls harangued away from locals
& schooling, French lessons excepted
but the sisters learned early
their positions
among their circle (the blooded
ice-skaters & ballroom dancers, debutantes
& prudent world travelers)
depended
upon cultivating wit. To give Muv her due
she managed to find amusement in anything
other then field sports &
the air of scrumptiousness
she encouraged in her girls,
their lives edging the British
sea
& Land's End where their hearts
were lost bathing daily
in the icy channel waters,
the yokels, those missing links,
urging war about them
& when it happened
Farve called into question
the cost of feeding goats &
the upkeep of a house
with five staircases,
geography lessons in themselves.
Jessica thrilled to leaflets &
aligned herself with Stalin,
while Unity took tea
with dearest Mr Hitler his
circle
our kind really, she even hinted
of a pet name for him, & Diana,
her lush beauty flourishing
beyond the natural bounds of
deportment, inspired Cecil Beaton
who had a wig designed of
silver foil
in which to photograph her, & she
in spite of Favre's bellowing,
married "that man" Mosley, the
merriment
of the sisters, earnestness
in standing for their ideals,
Diana’s pale blue eyes, his dark
the enthused squelch of new boots
on wet London streets
the marches behind the handsome
pair in black shirts
styled on Mosley's fencing jacket
:Limp-wrist edicts be damned!
Jobs alone matter! The Italians
Germans have them, & this Leader will
pull you together, one British
people,
the Great Unity of Blood-ties, or
welcome the Bolshies, the new wilderness!
& Farve back at the front,
his remaining lung bullied
by cold rain, colder than 1915
breathless under the bombardment
at Ypres, after his brother's death
posted to Oxford to convalesce
grasping the handlebars
of a motorcycle for home once a week
his purchase on the wind
& later he bought generously
gabled
Asthall Manor, the new grass growing
of old seed. For amusement
the family gathered to listen
for ghosts in the hallways,
their ability to laugh impaired
but still amicable,
& never bored.
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