The Warren House

Where, somehow, we lost it,  
elsewhere it was found  
beneath the rubble  
of this hopeless town where people stumble,  
naked and silent,  
unfeeling and tired.  
We pitched a tent  
and the wind it howled  
across the bleakness  
and through the trees  
and we scrambled, across the mounds, away, away from the cows and the horses and the baby lambs.  
The sounds, the sounds of the Anemoi, flushed our ears and massaged our fingers,  
lapping thickly, I had to tie back my hair.  
Crossing ground after ground without tarnish from humans,  
there is where it's perfect.  
There's a house, in the place, called Warren  
and if there is a Heaven, and a God, He built it there.  
There's a river, Ditsworthy, wide and deep enough to swim in, and I did so  
in the clothes my mother once bore me in,  
just below the grounds.  
Inside there is flagstone flooring, a stove and a, not yet rotten, wooden staircase.  
Outside a, breath-taking, moss indulged front garden,  
the ideas of things that could come and go,  
the years that no one would see me or tell me the fashions or make me question my delicate spirit.  
I could perish there from anything -  
happy.  
 
[Photo: Southdownswalking]