Near to the church this room is half-hushed too
And has an air of voluntary good,
The wordless piety of worked-at things:
Embroidery that took an age to do,
Baby clothes in tissue like Granny’s face,
The too-good cakes, & perfect fruit a painter
Might arrange. The women handle cash
As artlessly as children playing shops
With piles of change. At the back where chairs are stacked
Sit sprigs of old men tied in their winter coats
Like plants in pots whose future is unsure.
Some quiet advice, re-used like paper bags,
Seems aimed at them. ‘Leave them a month or so
Then if you pull them & the roots resist,
There’s a chance that they will live & flower again
Patrick Hare
