In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.
Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.
Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.
There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.
For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.