Wimple

I daresay I could, if I set my mind to it,

But my body will never be set to.

And so I never fight, I rarely look,

Why would I? When that which I see, I want?

I’ve been told I am tall enough,

The boathouse, such a place to hack that down.


But here we are, long coats wavering in step,

Rowing the air with the draped spavined lion,

And it is suffused with half-clerical fear

That I, for myself, crouch at that boathouse,


The irk of emasculation, the envy of the brave,

The guilt of the voyeur when the crews heave up

Their torpedoes, and shake them free.


I realise, still inward, the race is passing, and say,

“Which one are they? Which one?” and get no

Answer, presuppose navy blue, so catch that drama

Anyway. And they are winning.


An extended viewing I’ve scarcely deserved, all things

Being equal, and so am shamed to bawl for Ball,

And a bit comforted by this.


I find, beyond hope or qualm, the shape I have looked for,

Spiked with coldness to bump the rightful metaphor.


I cannot stay to greet it, only stare,

And scarper, to gather the spirits.


I hadn’t taken in that we were altogether first,

Which is sufficient, I suppose, at this point.


But blood and picture-postcard snow

Disturbed this feast.