Twin lights arc over the driveway
as we scale their path, swinging right
and stopping before the building, parked
in front of grass, and that in front of sea
an invisible saltiness,
a power greater than its mass out there, lulled,
we are pulled towards the porch, lit
under-hung,
met with smiles and shown through a familial museum
to our room, our board and bed and en-suite set,
Caerhys farm, in twin solitude now,
loses its anonymity;
walls are galleries of ancestry,
a harvest sun and a field reaped,
all things blowing in black and freeze,
and sepia of pre-extended homes,
examples glazed with due farm-sweat
of a history of living this life.
Chairs seating toys, the children
grown perhaps, the earmarks of play
are scuffs of timeless aggressions and cuddles.
Digressions of growing up with a doorstep-beach
catch my guard, off the gently sloping hill
and down this momentary rolls,
and back to bed and board,
near April,
hard to see through love’s thick veil
the newness of other things;
a kind of television set where cobwebs melt,
a dresser and bedside shelves,
curtains that must be drawn,
a bed to me unmade.
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