A burnt omelette's, old sweet corn and dishes stacked at random in the grease-rimed sink. The children shrill about T.V. wishes. My daughter cannot thread a needle. Each blink upsets the thread's frayed edge sideways. I police them to bed; “face, teeth, lights out”, having first heard my youngest trace the lettered maze. Patient with her at her stress, I want to shout. I go downstairs, conscious of a sadness, Velásquez or El Greece could not catch in a portrait of the poet with attendant mess, because the artists had models to match. Each riddle made of fame spells unique, a needle for word-threads’ deft hide and seek. By ( Duncan MCGibbon )