A few years ago, we bought an old house. I started a poem about it - it was old and unloved, the wires needed stripping, it had 'efflorescence' on the walls (look it up, it's nowhere near as gorgeous as it sounds). Generally speaking we've made slow progress, although I have a kind of vision for the house - white-walled art gallery meets book-nook library with a smattering of natural history curios thrown in.
The garden is more of a challenge. How to develop a botanical jungle that resists slugs and snails, is fragrant with herbs and feels like an oasis when I only have about 4ft square to play in....
Amber-eyed,
the Overlord presides
over the detritus of the living room
where I have badly stacked the incoming boxes
such that the bottom one
is compressed and extrudes its contents.
Arms ache from van trips and stair treks.
In the echoey dining room, rows of vertically-filed vinyl records
are causing the IKEA cupboard to sag in the middle,
temporarily shored with two garden bricks
yanked from stacks behind the weather-beaten shed.
The exterior brickwork has a white efflorescence
that suggests water seepage.
Electrical wires hang from door jambs like stripped veins.
She’s old and weary, like us.
The front door mat is curled to catch unwary feet.
Things move in my peripheral vision
and move back again when I stare
like scenes from a scary movie
where the new owners have disturbed the lives
of those who came before.
That first night
I sleep like a cat with fleas
hearing sounds of the street all night
through the meniscus of my dreaming.
The house has a broad back of centuries,
wrapped around me, dusty, impregnated
with other handprints.
Years pass.
She is still weary but her rooms
are lit with light, filled with echoes
of our noise-making. You painstakingly
revealed her wooden window sills, smoothed walls
and ceilings. We infuse her with splashes of passata,
garlic hummus, chilli oil from the garden vines.
Family
is what you become when you live
in the same nest. Cats morph on the retaining wall.
Vinyl crackles as the needle drops. This year
we’ll give you a new roof and stem the damp
although you don’t seem to mind it.
You’ve seen worse.
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