1 OCTOBER 1994, Page 40

Muse

Dissolute, undressed, indoors, we argue about the old days, how once there was a time for such pursuits and how the tender words were spiced with garlic and rosemary, like the flesh of a young lamb.

▪ . Is poetry something between cookery and sacrifice? I murmur as we pack the goods for market.

▪ . Be quiet. Look. The beech trees are golden, the air has autumn in it, and the street lies rain-washed and clean in October sun.