Sonnet for the New Year
Paper flowers in the warm room turn slowly
on light string suspended over the cot;
the room is known in that slow twisting wholly.
All your art’s care, down to every jot
of stitching in the chair-covers, the pictured walls,
the good display and colour of things, all’s there
held in a gradual thread-motion, which falls
unseen to spread about his darkwisp hair.
Paper flowers, born of your fingers’ movements;
born of your eye for placing, all stands fine –
as here and there the room takes on improvements,
and love, a sound, calls in your life and mine.
All sound in silence, dear, and soundly asleep,
to call out in turn – one dear life we keep.