Weekending In Somersal Herbert Poem by Irene Cunningham

As the hush of this house seeps into my skin
Mahler tips my stomach, disperses me
through the French windows. The landscaped garden
shrugs off bright colour: home is rough concrete
sloping into drains, walls sparkling
sunlight through broken bottles.
I’d hoped to see peacocks saunter across the lawn
fly over the roof and sit high in that oak.

When he told me about sanding the pine floor
I wanted to get down on my knees, lay my head
on wood, camp out on the Persian rug;
welcoming as a freshly-showered man. Calm
creamy walls just settling, are still nude.
A crack trickles under the window.
Chrysanthemum daisies in tall earthenware
make me dream of gently-filling bookshelves
with room for expansion.

Outside, the neighbour’s horse tests his long voice.
I flick through a book of sepia prints
The People’s War, a present from Ashbourne, for me
framed decoupage fairies for my mother
hand-crafted toys for the children – my time is up.
They think my weekending passing strange. I sip tea
as the clamour of their voices recedes.
A fat Christmas rose on the oak chest waves fat fingers
at me, at scars wrought deep in the wood.

(Published in New Welsh Review 1995)