The April Night
At the house of the famous writer
the irises in the deep grass
seemed to be listening.
In the deep twilight.
We in our folding chairs.
You in your powder-blue blazer, your pocket square
aglimmer; I looked to my right, past
the porch and into the glade
just a little away
where, tall as radar, floppy-lobed,
seven or so white irises
listened, and stared. They were not
clumped together, but standing
here and there, in their place
beneath the big tree. While one of us --
scholar, expert -- spoke; his voice
microphoned and lofting, hollowing
into the field full of spring
behind us, sinking
towards the old pond.
And when he was done,
and it grew dark and we rose
to mingle, and to softly start
to go home, there was a woman there --
long rippling hair, a white scarf
at her throat -- who lingered
a long time. Who was beautiful:
mild, middle-aged, unaccompanied.
Smiling, and bright.
Who stood close to us.
And wanted to know our names.
A. C. Grayling