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The humming lady arrives in a smiling orange smock and orders from the waiter a plate of overripe oranges, peeling off the snowwebs into a red-blanketed napkin She hums a centuries-old Romany tune, which I half- recognise as the fugue to my own death (and so it must be her own death) Through orange mist and beneath a brown-greying fringe, she appears to half- recognise both of our lives and turns (out of politeness?) towards an invisible volta Clear pearl of eye where I thank smilingly, pleased at the new tempo, its cheer turbinal about the room, unsealed maternally from the willow of her throat