this
house is very present. you'd
not think
it had held this corner of a Saxon field
more than three hundred years;
though time, to it,
is
just one now after another:
the
first now and the first laid stone,
to
this morning's turbulent now:
the
sky dizzy with clouds and
driving
blades of wind
through
gappy window-frames.
like
a great rock, unmoving
(even
in the storm
which
cracked apart the willow)
the
house maintains its vigil:
mindless
of sopping windowsills,
dark
borders drawn around each flag,
wave-maps
rising above the skirting boards
and
walls mould-mottled -
these
are just what happens
to
a house that has known three hundred winters,
and
been afloat more than once.
its
walls bellying slightly,
there's
not a right angle to it: but each stone
sits
in mute agreement.
stalwart,
it persists; and perhaps
sees
us only as trails of light,
cross-webbing
its rooms,
insubstantial
wraiths: here and then gone.
skirted
by the river (in spate, in drought)
and
girdled by the field
whose
edges are nibbled by rabbits,
the
house sits under its thick straw wig,
in
which the tiny commerce of woodlice
and
the larger scuffings of mice
make
whisperings.
at
night, as its thick black timbers
creak,
it hunkers down beneath
stars
it has known since 1670.
