By Pearse Hutchinson

The small kitchen in the attic scarcely had room for anything bar the big double bed.
Which was surprisingly comfortable.
There was one small square window, above the sink.
It was entirely covered – and very neatly too – by some very thin green material.
You’d be amazed
I always was
at how much light that green window let in. Chelsea light.

One forenoon, I asked him could he show me how to tie a Windsor Knot.
They were all the rage at the time. I’d tried myself, in vain. I didn’t even like them: too blowzy. But, stupidly, I wouldn’t be bested.
‘I’m a dab hand at the Windsor Knot,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you all right.’

And he did. But not around my neck.

1.8.2010
5.10 a.m.

This poem first appeared in Cyphers 75. It was published in Pearse Hutchinson’s posthumous collection Listening to Bach (Gallery 2014), and appears by permission of the author’s Estate and The Gallery Press

Pearse Hutchinson died on January 14th 2012.