The House

 

                                                                                       Rockingham Pottery Plates

 

Dear Reader,

The poem I wrote this week is about a house I was invited to by a neighbour who I didn't know at all well.  As soon as I stepped through the door I knew it was somewhere very special.  A proper home.  As you will see in the poem, everything to make a house seem loved, comfortable, and I would venture too, beautiful.  

When I see pictures of some modern houses with glass everywhere, grey walls and black furniture I wonder how anyone could live in them and be happy.  They look so grim and gloomy and on, say, a cold November afternoon I think I would take to my bed and stay there. 

The house we live in now is modern but I make it as cosy as possible and I have grown to love it.  I never thought I would when I left a pretty 17th century cottage to move here.  But the practicalities of living in a modern house outweigh the delights of the cottage, especially now I am old. Essentially it is always warm which for me is a wonderful bonus.  In Grace Cottage whatever we put the thermostat to the wind blew through the thin window panes and the house was always cold.  And there are no mice here, but they thrived in the cottage.  I can't cope with mice, and traps and mouse droppings in the vegetable rack.

                                                                                      *

From George Sturt, 1890, November 21st, in Surrey

'I noticed in the poplar above me two sorts of sound; the leaves pattering and rustling against one another, each with its separate chatter; and then as accompaniment and continuous ground-tone, the wind itself breathing audibly and caressingly between leave and round twigs and limbs.'

                                                                                       *

The House

Was it the sound of Chopin
filling the street air,
escaping from a large keyhole
in the weathered front door,
or the first glimpse of pale
stone flooring and a rocking horse
in the hall corner, or was it the
Easter lilies rising tall out of
white enamel jugs and books
everywhere, everywhere?

Was it the ancient dog
in front of a small log fire
protected by a staunch Victorian fireguard,
or the scrubbed table and gentian-blue
hyacinths peeking out of a copper bowl,
Rockingham pottery plates
each one different,
or the sculpture of an  unknown
woman young, rounded smooth,
placed lovingly on a window shelf
catching a flicker of the January sun?

Or was it the smell of the beef stew,
a nursery smell dredged from childhood,
or the sight of home-grown pears
floating in sugared juice?
Or was it the feeling of safety,
warmth and love
everywhere, everywhere
that overwhelmed me?

                                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

PS   I think Google has changed the format for this blog. It seems, friends tell me, that isn't possible to get the blog like they used to..  If you got notice of it every Sunday, for instance, I don't think you will be able to now.  I am not sure why they have done this and find it impossible to ask them.  If you know anything about this change could you please let me know.