10 SEPTEMBER 1994, Page 34

Language

I shall poke my finger in the holes between words; I shall return to wrestle with the grammar of small things: my daughters' toys and papers offered on the cloth, a chipped plate, a candle, this conjugation of blue-tits swinging on peanuts. I shall re-master the syntax of bodies,. the lost line of your side under the sheet, your hand on the switch, your closed eyes gleaming through darkness — learn to wrap my mouth round your echoing sentences, to follow fences leaning under roses, listen to the strange fall of the syllables: food, love, rain, home.

Susan Wicks