Anemograms

Anemograms from years you can hardly remember
handed round at an evening garden party.
Empty envelopes the colour of envy,
sparkling wine and cautious laughter.
A guest who has waited 
too long makes an awkward proposal.

Pronunciation. And longing.
Fears that seemed so large as shadows
walking barefoot now through prickly grass.
Demure, substantial
like night-earth steaming in the morning sun.
What words could cup it carefully?

No one anymore wears white silk gloves.
She came from Wilno and the century
of grand railway stations and spoke seven languages
each equally endangered. Yes,
there is an uncanny resemblance to the northerlies
of our childhood, as if another time might come.