Slowly opening,
The door lets us enter into this newly painted room,
And we are surrounded by signs of
Another spring; in the curtains
Hints of flowers, on the walls
The paper's sprouting leaves. Then a warm passage
Leads us away, down the deep lane,
Further into the old house,
Where another room waits for us.
A bulb burns down, heating
The wall-to-wall greenness
Of the patterned summer,
Burning to brown arms and faces
Which have come into its light. Now it is time to move again,
Away from the brown and into yellow.
Draught fights draughtΜύaround
Cracked window panes, letting
The summer drain away.
Greens go,
Trickling through the cracks;
The patterned colours run,
And we are in a white-washed room. The furniture has been stored away,
And our echoes chide us for coming so far.
There is frost in the window panes,
And frost in the burnt-out fireplace.
What is left for us now?
Another house?
Another series of rooms
To lead us through the year?
We must wait for the return
Of colour, of heat and the
Soft furnishings of another spring. |
