Perched on the swivel-chair in soft blue nightdress
And swept in beauty down from crowned-ring-plait
To footstool: so you reign in the night, a queen
Christ-holding, time-free, lovely. Burrowing close
He with his tortoise head, so dear already,
Ruffles your milk in windy sleepiness . . .
If I could sculpt a scene in living stone,
Set down a fragment of the softest cloud
Touched with humanity – it would be this
One moment. On the mantelpiece the candles
Prance their light. As you lay him down,
Holding him into his cot, then with your grace
Easily rise, the outlines of this moment
Rush into space . . . a sudden church now darkens.