Without Stars

 

We might say as Auden did the stars are all indifferent

But now, past fifty I don’t know, the conceit may turn

From a life of cheer as the poet had good drink

 

& those who loved him; we may call the stars unfriendly

When we are snug at home, the fire banked

Our Paschal lamb with pepper, the wine dark.

 

We might say we are more loving and be true

As love is to sky a small advantage

& love-me-not is the name of its tune

 

Which stars cannot know.

Here’s a succession of rooms,

Dresses & trousers, our heaped books;

 

The ailanthus we hope to plant come May—

In the garden we’ll be powerless,

Ailanthus cannot grow

 

Until the leaves are strong

& we would

Be more loving

 

If we but knew the words.

Still I will call the stars unfriendly

Only when I’m far from home.

 

S.K.