Sunday, 30 March 2014



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.

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