Even now, after twice her lifetime of grief



and anger in the very place, whoever comes



to climb these narrow stairs, discovers how



the bookcase slides aside, then walks through



shadow into sunlit room, can never help







but break her secrecy again. Just listening



is a kind of guilt: the Westerkirk repeats



itself outside, as if all time worked round



towards her fear, and made each stroke



die down on guarded streets. Imagine it—







four years of whispering, and loneliness,



and plotting, day by day, the Allied line



in Europe with a yellow chalk. What hope



she had for ordinary love and interest



survives her here, displayed above the bed







as pictures of her family; some actors;



fashions chosen by Princess Elizabeth.



And those who stoop to see them find



not only patience missing its reward,



but one enduring wish for chances







like my own: to leave as simply



as I do, and walk at ease



up dusty tree-lined avenues, or watch



a silent barge come clear of bridges



settling their reflections in the blue canal.









