What was I thinking of (not Tintern
Abbey, that's for sure, more likely you—
mean: we were on honeymoon)
when, like a bolt from the blue,

trembling with afternoon heat-fatigue,
there Tintern just was. With all the time
in the world we stopped, and looking it over
thought we had all the earlier time

in the world as well: the deadpan chants
still rising like burned-off dew through the roof;
the hands, the knees, the feet which wore down
scone with the softness of lips, but prove

what wants to survive; the cloisters' sinewy
darkness—a labyrinth-lair of the brain,
a damp-smelling muddle, a slow walk round
in the skull then back to the light again.

That's right: what was I thinking of?
Anyway, after we'd killed an hour or so
whatever it was had changed, and on we went
in our juddering Mini, grinding up through