As the hush of this house seeps into my skin

Mahler tips my stomach, disperses me

through the French windows. The landscaped garden

shrugs off bright colour: home is rough concrete

sloping into drains, walls sparkling

sunlight through broken bottles.

I’d hoped to see peacocks saunter across the lawn

fly over the roof and sit high in that oak.

 

When he told me about sanding the pine floor

I wanted to get down on my knees, lay my head

on wood, camp out on the Persian rug;

welcoming as a freshly-showered man. Calm

creamy walls just settling, are still nude.

A crack trickles under the window.

Chrysanthemum daisies in tall earthenware

make me dream of gently-filling bookshelves

with room for expansion.

 

Outside, the neighbour’s horse tests his long voice.

I flick through a book of sepia prints

The People’s War, a present from Ashbourne, for me

framed decoupage fairies for my mother

hand-crafted toys for the children – my time is up.

They think my weekending passing strange. I sip tea

as the clamour of their voices recedes.

A fat Christmas rose on the oak chest waves fat fingers

at me, at scars wrought deep in the wood.

 

 

Published in New Welsh Review 1995