I even wrote about it!


Mr Eliot meets Mr Shakespeare

The wind moans under the eaves
And Winter, cold fingered, gropes
About the house once more

'Now is the Winter of our discontent'

The fire warms itself in the grate
And flames, warm fingered
Rub themselves like old men's hands

'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow'

The fog stalks cold around the house
And mist, light fingered,
Feels every gap, like a blind man.

'I see thee, yet I have thee not'

Wind, fire and fog about grey stone.
Ivy, fickle fingered scans the storied slab
Like life's poor player who struts and frets,

'And then is heard no more'