Front Room, Gourock Road
It was the muffled hush of cars woke me
Morning ushered through rain’s swift sibilance
I open my eyes to a high ceiling’s
Delicate coving, plaited in plaster
A century fresh, the fat architrave
Frames more than a door; the marble fireplace
Gives no heat yet nods the room’s instruction
Telling it how to conduct its affairs.
I am comfortable, bounded by books
For this room is insulated with words
Jammed in order under massive shelves;
Squeezing smells of endless turned leaves and days.
I have slept, dined, danced, sung, laughed and lied here.
I shuffle the room’s sweet idiocies,
The roaring men and sparkling women,
The dizzying highs and sickly deceit.
It was here our careless Christmas candles
Lit wallpaper, scorched wood and melted wire
Yet the room spared the house, held its deep breath
And all were safe. Walls, books, children, lovers.