Lady of the House

The list of your small provinces was endless

and lost the run of itself by the end.

Southfleet, Heathfield, Eastbourne,

terrace, bungalow and flat.

The low lands and high lands of homes,

a catalogue of short emigrations.

You were Queen of the glebes,

working the paddocks of kitchens,

and stowing the plots of attic graveyards.

Every place was filled to brim and border,

as with each move you stretched the breadth

of your arms through rooms and spanned the walls.

The furniture of your lawns,

the acres of your window pelmets

and the hectares of your bed linen;

I could always recognise your little country.

A skittering of wild strawberries in one front garden,

a trellis of runner beans at the back of another.

You laid on the floor of your flat once and combed the length

of your fingers through the weave of the carpet.

I would put my head to your chest,

hardly able to tell if you were coming or going,

and let the woollen threads of your vest knit into mine,

let my fingers root in yours.

One night I dreamt a wind entered your home,

slubbing the gloss of surfaces with dust,

and covering with shade rooms lamped in gilt.

It filched through porches,

breached windows lost to drapes,

and tore at your rafters.

By morning it had blown its course;

there was no trace of dust-dance on the lino,

no crockery shaken free from the shelf,

and the dried linen still hung from the clothes horse.

As I watched the day break with the weight of itself 

Only a draught was trying your door.