were household words and in that little time
when I believed in things their names became
Arthurian with tellings, fables
from a Lyonesse that seemed
to lie between the light and night, half seen
like shadow-shapes that lamps on tables
cast where kitchen walls met beams in ceilings;
indistinct perhaps, but real as feelings.
their silence like their suits—uneasily.
These men who coloured-in an era stare
back monochromed, their faces shut, their hands
superﬂuous on knees. Their lives
lie bleached in laundered stories. Years creep by
in grey, unfocused prose. This history stands
in need of kitchens, myths and lamps revealing
emphasising hands outlined on ceilings.