The hunting lodge
Without the hunt,
Short of opening hours,
A history unused,
From a story best forgotten,
A wave
Without ripple
On a lake
With a Moorish folly.
Beckford without the tower,
Vathek without hell.
Beckford has gone to Bath—
Lessened
By age like a circus boy
With an ample, useless rump,
Unable to proffer his trick.
Virgin again,
Frosted by age’s useless memories.
Bring on television
In binges of soothing forgetfulness.
Let it be solace then
For
The hunting lodge
Without the hunt.
