10 AUGUST 1991, Page 33

Backwater

Tonight, at Eastern Slope, I wined too well; Half-sobered up; and then got drunk once more. Home around midnight, bang, bang, bang at the gate Brought no response but the house-boy's thunderous snore.

Persist? For what? I lean on my stick and listen To the sound of the river fretting its moonlit shore.

Not to command oneself, to be shuffled around At the whim of the world, it irks, it niggles me. The night wears on. Wind drops. The surly river Soothes from its snarl a rippled filigree. I would give this arm for a boat, for a chance to wherry My shored-in self to the widths of an open sea.