A second heavy fall
has turned the garden dazzling in the bright
hard winter sun; the roads impassable,
we sleep at home tonight
while in a nearby town
our first joint-purchased house waits in the snow
for us to take possession. But the lane
must clear before we go.
The house, of Georgian brick
hand-chiselled oak and cool stone corridor,
has mourned a year in silence: not a tick
behind the panelled door,
the elegant windows,
in perfectly proportioned rooms (now bare)
where for a year the sense of absence grows:
nobody climbs the stair
(“A model of its kind”,
unfashionably narrow, fairly steep,
lovely) except brochure in hand, to find
the room where we will sleep,
the cast-iron balcony
above the formal garden, with its pond
and line of cypresses and apple tree,
the Castle Mound beyond.
We, sensible, believe
it prudent that we make the move before
decrepitude compels us, and we grieve;
but town must suit us more
than half a mile of track
two acres that defy us to defend
as fen and carr each moment calls them back.
Yes, Dearest, this must end
as life itself. So mourn,
but mourning count the ways that we are blessed:
affection and intelligence endure,
the spring will see another grandchild born,
this house that holds the best
of memories – from here
we went to marry, here stayed those we love,
and loved; the garden that you held so dear;
the grass-snake, glow- worm, dove;
the silence of the hours;
The inky nights, the thousand stars they hold;
Dear, even as you mourn departing powers,
rejoice as we grow old.