7 JULY 1961, Page 41

The Solitude

Heavy, holy faces throng the house, Swearing agony from the ceiling, agonised remorse

Sweeps over the ceiling—high in the- moulding The spider cracks his web through yellow eyeballs; Curtain-folds gust quiet laughter.

Wriggling in the steam of my breakfast-coffee Are refusal, righteousness, misery of charity; Stains of half a innan sadden ale Whole ceiling;

My own in the mirror the only sane one among them;

The rockery 'outside knuckles my mouth in Prayer.

The doorbell. I hitch my trouser-legs in pleated smiles

And request my visitor to be seated.

PETER REDGROVE