MOURNING

MOURNING

I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one

Lined with daffodils (Wordsworth would have approved).

I had my own poem set out, open like the cupped

Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in:  Sun-trapped

Stone steps, coming down from the white-washed loft;

And what the house held:

The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,

The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,

A range to help a kettle sing, and streams...

Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping

From wide window-sills, with hills outside;

Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have

A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one

At the back of the cottage we nearly had,

I knew the man who lived there once.