14 OCTOBER 1995, Page 46

In Eastbourne, reading Montale

I'm reminded here of Eugenio Montale, Poet of the little felicities Of marriage and attendant sorrows, Marooned by these cliffs Listening to Delius. In light Like Venetian glass he endures Energetic brass-band music, A man slow moving as a tortoise.

Poems do not come easily, Their truths to be earned Occonyno troppe vita per fame ana The dependence of every life On many others — alone now, Striped bathing huts and spread towels Stir memories of conjugal holidays, Pinewoods of Forte dei Marmi, Lerici.

The pages of his exercise book Witness these changes of mood, Revisions of feeling. Domesticated, Familiar of kitchens, he gazes At a sea like gelatine, too late For any but the shortest of poems, Wondering if they'll bear his weight.

Alan Ross