I’ll Have a Country House
With a garden that stretches to a little fence,
With nothing beyond, and sparrows that will rest on the posts.
There’ll be an Aga and a chopping board scratched
With the marks of knives used daily to slice, and chop, and feed.
When evening comes there’ll be no traffic, no scream of city
Cutting air, a sunset left alone.
The cobwebs strung in ceiling corners, perhaps I’ll let them stay,
For their stories, after all, are just as relevant as mine.
And if the nights are too quiet, if shadows become ghosts,
I’ll remember now, the lakes of concrete, and
My dream of a country house.