It's
a morning in July like others, where a change of air does us good and we take
down 'Later Auden' (Mendelson) from one of the solid bookcases and open to
1958-1973, over breakfast coffee. The room where poems are made is a place
where "silence/ is turned into objects, " even these picked out on a
keyboard, glowing now on a screen of sheer sunlight. He was a wordsmith, what
they do, and doubtful about word pictures that describe the lime-tree at the
window or the chooks foraging autumn-wintered leaves; but not the prospect of a
walk through town.
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