She pauses a moment
at the window, surveying
the spread of rooftops.
The long summer dusk
lingers. She feels how
she balances on the edge
of gathering night.

She closes the curtain
swiftly, shutting out
the swelling darkness.
The room behind her
glows with subdued light.

She spends her evenings
alone with her solitude,
an imaginary brute
she has almost tamed,
still it sprawls among
the many trophies
of her collecting
zeal, indifferent
to all but the dumb
anguish of which it
is composed.
                    She will
borrow her passion
from her stereo,
As Pears expresses
What Britten felt for him.

Her life has formed one
long regretful sigh.
She wonders sometimes
how so much has passed
                             her by.