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Clouds Hill
Ou phrontis
I sit by the window,
in the Music Room,
waiting for others,
to head home.
After they've looked,
at the desk and fireplace,
with it's portrait above,
the red leather sofa,
the huge horn of the gramophone.
Why worry?
The coffin stool,
the guidebook says,
was a gift from Mrs Hardy.
Why worry?
In that quiet moment,
after the last visitor,
has decended the stairs,
I try to imagine this cottage,
when the uncrowned king of Arabia was here.
Why worry?
What was it like back then,
when Clouds Hill was full,
of men,
reading and arguing,
and drinking tea.
Eating baked beans,
straight out of the tin?
Why worry?
What is that I hear?
Was it just my imagination,
a motorcycle changing gear?
No, it was nothing,
I think.
Just the wind through,
the trees,
across the heath.
Ou phrontis
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