On the Disadvantages of Central Heating

　　 by Amy Clampitt

　　 cold nights on the farm， a sock-shod

　　 stove-warmed flatiron slid under

　　 the covers， mornings a damascene

　　 sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now

　　 waking in northwest London， tea

　　 brought up steaming， a Peak Frean

　　 biscuitalongside to be nibbled

　　 as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now

　　 damp sheets in Dorset， fog-hung

　　 habitat of bronchitis， of long

　　 hot soaks in the bathtub， of nothing

　　 quite drying out till next summer：

　　 delicious to think of

　　 hassocks pulled in close， toasting

　　 forks held to coal-glow， strong-minded

　　 small boys and big eager sheepdogs

　　 muscling in on bookish profundities now quite forgotten

　　 the farmhouse long sold， old friends

　　 dead or lost track of， what's salvaged

　　 is this vivid diminuendo， unfogged

　　 by mere affect， the perishing residue of pure sensation

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