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Where The Hill Rises
There was another life before yours
in these old stone rooms,
two opposing fireplaces keep watch
like the staring greyhounds flanking
the door. Privet, vinca, long spears of lavender.
One wooden chair faces the sun,
another angles off under the old pear,
twinned and unlikely as pearl earrings
and a black purse of skate eggs
trapped between window & screen,
forgotten all winter.
Someone else slept in these rooms,
left the bed without your knowing,
wandered down to the stable
to breathe in the dark swill,
piss and straw and deep contentment.
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