The lane hedges are smartly cut: they have a
sour-fresh smell.
On our walk, the reprieve of cool wind is brief.
Heat sticks. Cloud builds.
Stand a while by the cut-open house because such a
place reeks of fascination. See the rose print curtains; drawn open for a
morning that lingers in their poignant witness; and the bared stairs where feet
changed direction when they did remember what they were going to do after all.
Why is memory so easily lost and found in a stairwell?
Footings for more space are dug: those old memories
will tumble down, be mixed in. Even when the specifics are gone, the vestiges
of history hold; lightly haunt.
The field is a wider space, where we can open our arms to catch spouts of wind.
The crumbled barn has no doors but its spaces are like eyes: you can look
through them, view the world as the barn views it.
This evening rain comes. Tepid drops on warm tarmac; they make a low mist, they
sparkle in headlights.
Imagine those curtains in the opened house, the rain blowing over fabric roses.
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