23 JUNE 2001, Page 42

Poem for a Sleeping Sooz

Funny, since I am a man for whom Words are the loom On which we weave our loves; The warp of agonies concealed, The weft of bliss confessed, All formed, or so I thought, a part Of the proper garments of the heart.

Lacking such, love went about undressed.

Yet how much, so much more expressed By this sleep-heavy arm Thrown across my chest!

Christopher Howse is Comment Editor of the Giles Abbott Daily Telegraph.