Our honeymoon weaved
from Hampton Court to the pavement
labyrinth of Chartres, then on to
the high hedged puzzle of the Villa Pisani,
where he delighted in my wrong-footed
confusion. All the while his notebook
overflowing with looped alleys, abrupt
dead ends, sly, coiling traps. Back home
I soon came to feel the practice
of his art, no day complete without
a fresh pattern of deception, cursed myself
each time he led me up the garden path,
for not seeing the straight and narrow
would never be enough.
