Ripon: April 1918

Under those eaves
In Borrage Lane,
Taking his leave
Snatched for a few hours,
Trying to catch the true tone
Of what he had known
And would go back to soon,
Above all Above all
Not concerned, scratched out, restored,
Each considered word
Above all, I am not concerned
With Poetry
And the blossom like confetti
The Poetry is in the pity.