25 JANUARY 1963, Page 21

The Ghost

What makes permeable the ghost?

Madam, you haunt me but a young month old And already I see the grey clock through your breasts

And, when I hold you, air Is in my fingers or cold water at most.

How little rubbing wears the brave nap bare: You are like old flags of honour hung in naves Through which we see the stained glass and the vault.

Why, all goes thin and savour flies the salt.

And you in April were sure flesh in my arms: In May,

Only an eddying in the furniture—

And who can say but time's philospher Whether this fading in the lover's palms Grieves or relieves him? Only I note this much.

That there are those who spring from a rare stem And grow more strange and solid at each touch : Whom I have known, but you were not of them.

HILARY CORK E