House When I came here I had to un-nail the door and break into its dark. Rain dripping for years had rotted the floor. I possessed first a smell of soot and ashes. I let light in, and, twice, I married, and left here for Greece where often I would blink at the light and long for some, for this, dark place, just as the Greeks did as a matter of fact, closing shutters and lurking in siestas. Did I marry that one for her darkness, did I turn to another for her light? Then that light too turned into ashes. Shadows of marriage haunt the corners of house, woods, villages and hills. Today I took our carpets where the cars of other townsfolk loop around the tip on this Bank Holiday: a clearance fiesta. That house I let light into is soon restored. Visible, the wood and stone. Bare boards. I discover again the long-walled-up fireplaces. Tonight – a glass of whisky in my hand – for the first time again I can smell ashes. Updated: Tuesday, November 19, 2002
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