Did she know what she was at
When she slipped past the garden door
To palm the rolled notes from the teapot,
Or later that night when she pasted
The letter at the back of Hall’s Algebra
And pierced the date with a needle?
So quickly the instant slid back
In the haystack, pressed by its fellows —
She spent the rest of the evening
Grinning on a sofa by the hour.
The photographs show her all flounces,
Engrossed, a glass in her hand,
But the others’ eyes are like foxes’ in torchlight;
She surely knew what she was starting: a ruffle
That probed like wind in a northern garden.
In her dreams it’s not that she recalls them
But they come, the treasures of time
Lying packed like a knife in a garter
Or scattered among the leaves.
She hears the notes whistled on the half-landing
Just as the sweeping hand crowds the hour.