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December Dream

From my white box, with its two squares Of five-by-five plate-glass, I gaze across an oblong well On at least a gross Of identical, functional And five-by-five foot gleams, As boring as a Mondrian.

So I have dreams Of rooms compared to which Gaudi, Grinling Gibbons, Gongora And Fischer von Erlach combined Would seem plain fare — A suite that's one huge honeycomb Of convoluted zest, Of moulding, swag, gadroon, mouchette, Scrollwork and the rest; Dense as grisaille, enamelling-rich, A maze of artifice — With shot-silk tints and silver-gilt As intricate as lace, And fluting, fretwork, inlay, all, Distilling self-delight . . .

But it's five o'clock; the panes switch on Blanks of gaseous white.

Simon Curtis

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