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Julia Copus

Image by Caroline Forbes

A Soft-edged Reed of Light

Julia Copus

A Soft-edged Reed of Light

Julia Copus

A Soft-edged Reed of Light

That was the house where you asked me to remain
on the eve of my planned departure. Do you remember?
The house remembers it - the deal table
with the late September sun stretched on its back.
As long as you like, you said, and the chairs, the clock,
the diamond leaded lights in the pine-clad alcove
of that 1960s breakfast-room were our witnesses.
I had only meant to stay for a week
but you reached out a hand, the soft white cuff of your shirt
open at the wrist, and out in the yard,
the walls of the house considered themselves
in the murk of the lily-pond, and it was done.

Done. Whatever gods had bent to us then to whisper,
Here is your remedy - take it - here, your future,
either they lied or we misheard.
How changed we are now, how superior
after the end of it - the unborn children,
the mornings that came with a soft-edged reed of light
over and over, the empty rooms we woke to.
And yet if that same dark-haired boy
were to lean towards me now, with one shy hand
bathed in September sun, as if to say,
All things are possible - then why not this?
I'd take it still, praying it might be so.

'A Soft-edged Reed of Light' first published in The Spectator, February 2008, © Julia Copus 2008, used by permission of the author.


Julia Copus

Julia Copus Reading from Her Poems

1Love, Like Water

2In Defence of Adultery

3Hymn to All the Men I'll Never Love

4Topsell's Beasts

5A Soft-edged Reed of Light

6This is the Poem in which I Have Not Left You

7The Back Seat of My Mother's Car

8Digging the Pond

9Easter Reunion

10Lamb's Electronic Antibiotic


12Glimpses of Caribou


14Moderate Restaurant Clatter


16Miss Haversham's Letter

16Soft Parts


19Stars Moving Westwards in a Winter Garden

20Esprit de l'Escalier

21An Easy Passage

22Impossible As It Seems