Open for Inspection

Professor Fletcher (Leeds and Cambridge),
with his rich voice and grubby collar,
enduring a holiday with his wife,
parted reluctantly with his dollar
and trailed his spouse from room to room,
absent-minded, bored and cross.
If the wretched place went up in smoke
he thought it would be no great loss.
The constant murmur of solid cedar
increased his irritation. It was odd
in this country how that sibilant refrain
seemed a sort of substitute for God.

This is the master bedroom the guide intoned,
Note the sumptuous fourposter, original
hangings still intact …

Professor Fletcher in his mind’s eye
his Ariadne seized, flung on the bed,
with all her loveliness arrayed
as if for his own banquet spread.
Swiftly he drew the curtains round
and fell upon her radiant flesh, then,
pleasure done, they’d drift to sleep
and wake to blissful lust again.
So it might be he mused, recalling
motel rooms and carpet-smelling air,
their clothes on hangers side by side,
and Ariadne, naked, brushing her hair.