2 NOVEMBER 1991, Page 45

Window Seat

Dawn. On the wall outside wind-chimes whose slaty carillon last night trickled, caressed my ears like a bijou by Ravel.

Twitching: a mole-gibbet.

And the roses whose nodding scent disarmed me the same evening — what do they hold now but the family cat: that clawed wind about to hit the wagtail on the golfcourse lawn.

Metaphor, you strolling miracle, any minute, any mortal second — what a perfect mess of things!

Geoffrey Holloway