The carriage brushes through the bright
Leaves (violent jets from life to light);
Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves
Between the showers of bright hot leaves
The window-glasses glaze our faces
And jar them to the very basis
But they could never put a polish
Upon my manners or abolish
My most distinct disinclination
For calling on a rich relation!
In her house (bulwark built between
The life man lives and visions seen)
The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,
Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,
And silence hisses like a snake
Invertebrate and rattling ache….
Then suddenly Eternity
Drowns all the houses like a sea
And down the street the Trump of Doom
Blares madly shakes the drawing-room
Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn
As dank dark nettles. Down the horn
Of her ear-trumpet I convey
The news that "It is Judgment Day!"
"Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear."
I roared: "It is the Trump we hear!"
"The What?" "THE TRUMP!" "I shall complain!
…. the boy-scouts practising again."
Solo For Ear-Trumpet
written byDame Edith Sitwell
© Dame Edith Sitwell