The Chandler’s Son

There was an aureole burning

On the chandler’s son, from whom

His mother bought their evenings

Reading in the drawing room

With but four humours, how

Was he to describe an ambush

Springing from deep eyes, how

To explain near-transparent flesh

Or a voice downwind of Eden

In a world one shade brighter

He has hay-stung afternoons with

Translucent light leaving weals

Perfect, and gone too swiftly

His mother reads flickering print

And he is listening to the voice

Of the chandler’s brown-haired boy

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