There is beauty in stabilised ruins;
rusting scaffolds, prickling hessian,
and summer rooms vapoury drapery
limp before damp frosted glass.
I canít believe everythingís still here.
Daphne permeates naked timbers
porous cracked and powdery bricks;
roils in on floor draughts up dingy passage ways
drawn by cold chimneys to each room.
I canít believe summer hasnít taken them.
I canít believe the roof still stands
under four seasons of leaves; from
that old walnut, bare, girdled tightly by ivy
murdered by the merciful sun last season,
it would offer up sweet fruits
if only someone would beat the cockatoos.
I lean into the garden to gather up jonquils
shiver to feel this old place was never left alone.
I can almost smell raisin toast, cinnamon,
and hear those children excited by brand new lambs,
but the breeze nipped the back of my neck, tucking memories
right back to yesterday when I forgot.
But I remembered enough to pick the jonquils,
and bring them to you.