Love After Love The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

I read; I travel; I become

The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.

Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

All of Victorian verse is pentameter.

Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village.

When poems are no good they don't make any sense.