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Michael Tolkien

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Dear Muriel

‘Write and tell me how you are, dear’
(Stevie Smith, Emily writes such a good letter)


It’s as if I’ve been trying not to scream,
and it’s still dark. The kind of dream
you think you’re making up but don’t want to.

He’s gone by seven:  I can’t make him late
any more, and it’s a long time to wait
and see what the post will bring.

I can’t think why it used to get me down
when the boys turned the place upside-down,
to get off by eight. Then they began to sulk,

their girls made them marry for the sake of it.
They visit seasonably or when things are tight.
I wonder what we ever had in common.

I’ve tried my hand at decorating. the odd
extravagance, new recipes. I’m good
at pruning his roses the way he says.

He’s back at six, full of despair
over departmental blunders, fills his chair
with crumbs, and leaving the papers in a heap,

watches nothing beyond the News at Nine
when he’s more or less off to work again,
assuring me he needs his sleep.

On dry days our things hang out together;
I’m pecked goodbye, and though it seems a bother,
he likes me on Sundays before breakfast and golf.

Come December I gear up for a fortnight’s
sun.  Sensibly except for after nights
out when his passion’s ‘duty-free’.

Page(s) 68-69

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