Stand a moment in the centre of these panels.
     His room’s empty now, being restored.
Just the mahogany table and carved doors –
     leading, if you open them, one to a tiny bedroom,
one to a brick wall. A stone fireplace, chest-high –
     just right for a gentleman to warm his backside

in icy weather. Outside are pale wood stairs
     and steps to an upper floor
with a vertical iron bar to grab when drunk.
     We’re here. The mantle of antiquity, of always.
These rooms once belonged to William Paley!
     The panels are bayonet geometries

with Ionic capitals on top, like a set
     of watching owls. A Bible and Latin books un
opened on the desk. “I used to throw my gun
to my shoulder before the looking-glass
     and fire with a cap on the nipple
at the flame of a candle held by a friend.

If my aim was accurate, the little puff of air
     blew it out. There was a sharp crack!
When the Tutor passed below he thought I had a taste
     for snapping a whip.” He’s twenty-one.
Quite soon he’ll be a parson
     pursuing Natural History part-time

but now the world is vivid, a bright rug
     of dark-hearted poppies. His collecting net
hangs from a pole like the dug
     of a breeding bitch. The circus of polished oak
reflects brass glitter on his Coddington’s Microscope,
     the first real scientific instrument he’s owned,

even more prized than his gun. He’s friends
     with Botany and Geology Professors; he competes
for favour at their lectures. He’s in debt. He reads Paley –
     of course – and novels. He rides out to the Fens
to catch beetles. He dreams of a Natural History expedition
     to Teneriffe, before he gets down to parsoning.

Let’s walk him out to the jade lawn, scarlet geraniums
     and black stone walls (now cleaned and pale)
familiar, once, to Milton. Everything in its place:
     college history; the Laws of Nature and of God.
A great regard for understanding order
     stirs in him like a sleeping bird. A roc perhaps. Or a phoenix.