Rationing In Wartime

The tea is warm: surprising.

The cup is full, the spoon lies here
Upon the saucer; on the French toast the icing
Clings as on a bun; the marmalade jar stands,
Sticky and blue, there, on the tranquil tray.
Come to the table, you take the nice chair!
Behind that dark ring of browny-grey
Left on the white linen by the teapot-stand,
Look! you see the grated raw
Dry carrots which the nurse brought in, and flung,
On a ghastly whim, in with the canned
Pilchards. Biscuits and cheese begin
Our tremulous moonlit supper, and bring
The eternal taste of madness in.

Sophocles long ago
Ate pilchards on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid chubb and roe
Of inland fisheries; we
Find also in the can a thought,
Eating pilchards with a cup of tea.

This pickled egg
Was once, too, seen by Aristotle, what’s more,
Or one very like it: white, and softer than a pearl.
But now only I hear
His melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Suffering half to death
With the wind, after a night on Greek beer,
And all the baked potatoes in the world.

Ah, love, let us tea brew
For one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a sea of breams,
And salmon, halibut, and crabs of blue,
Hath really neither lobsters, nor delight,

Nor mackerel, nor cod, nor Dover sole;
And we shall have canned pilchards in a bowl
Topped with grated carrots. Though there is no delight,
Let’s eat, drink tea, and fuck. I’m much too tired to fight.