For more than half our lives, we have lived
in this enigmatic, anachronistic
Victorian villa – built to look like
a Georgian farmhouse – with ashlar blocks
at three corners, the fourth unfinished.
A Valentine’s Day removal, we ate
a takeaway in the kitchen with friends.
The wife is a widow now. Our daughter
has grown, gone and visits: her childhood
still blesses the rooms sun touches through the day’s
compass. We have watched, at the long sash window
on the half landing, the sky and the garden
change through the slow seasons – sparrows in flight,
a leaf falling. Love lasts.