All Best
I go with the grain of foreign courtesies By writing, to somebody met only twice, I remain, your impassioned eternal lover Or My soul is yours each minute of night and day.
Inevitably, a laughing answer comes: 'No, no! It is all wrong. I tell you, please, The words we are using here, and you will find The nearest words in English to say it right.'
So for months all my letters begin and end With even more misjudged felicities, Still striving to please correspondents for whom I love you until death is no stronger than Good morning, and for whom not to say, In concluding the simplest thank-you letter, I touch you all over, always, in my thoughts Is tantamount to insult. It does not work.
I watch the trees turn colour, at different speeds, And start another letter wondering Should I go back to intriguing understatement? The kind I used once, coaxing long threads of hair From between a pillow and the incomparable Shoulders which trapped them, so as to release A head and lips for a more than thank-you kiss — When I had only strength enough for kind regards?
Alan Brownjohn
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