Yet it is the electric light
Whose glow is cast
Onto the vase of flowers
The candles
At either side of the mirror
An awkward height for lighting
Or for light to go into the bedroom
A place I can sort of see
Through a glass panelled door
With engravings of pheasants
Where more light is flowing
Artificial, ruby red light
And white, natural daylight
The night-time is over
The morning is with us
I can hear the birds
I can hear the gas boiler
All seemed clearer
Yesterday, though without
Wine and conversation
It becomes more difficult
Today, to piece together
The many divergent strands
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