In the window of the drawing-room

    there is a rush of white as you pass

    in which the figure of your husband is，

    for a moment， framed. He is watching you.

    His father will come， of course，

    and， although you had not planned it，

    his beard will offset¹ your lace² dress，

    and always it will seem that you were friends.

    All morning， you had prepared the house

    and now you have stepped out

    to make sure that everything

    is in its proper place： the railings whitened，

    fresh gravel³ on the avenue， the glasshouse

    crystal when you stand in the courtyard

    expecting the carriage to arrive at any moment.

    You are pleased with the day， all month it has been warm.

    They say it will be one of the hottest summers

    the world has ever known.

    Today， your son is one year old.

    Later， you will try to recall

    how he felt in your arms——

    the weight of him， the way he turned to you from sleep，

    the exact moment when you knew he would cry

    and the photograph be lost.

    But it is not lost.

    You stand， a well-appointed group

    with an air of being pleasantly surprised.

    You will come to love this photograph

    and will remember how， when he had finished，

    you invited the photographer inside

    and how， in celebration of the day，

    you drank a toast to him， and summer-time.