by Jake Murray17 May 2016
House of colours and images,
wooden walls and antiques,
photographs and portraits of you,
you as a little girl, eyes the eyes
of one who sees Otherness,
wide and vulnerable, fixed on things
the cameraman could not see.
Such a house soaks in memories,
history at every step, souvenirs
of a family woven into reds and greens,
blues and creams. Rich carpets,
dark chairs, warm welcome and
running wine, a dining table laden
with lives that have left their touch
Windows onto an old city, bedroom
with an old bed, books on the shelves
about England, history, ancient times.
A country’s spirit breathes in the air.
Reach out and touch it.
In this bed I saw you sleep.
In this bed I saw your hair fall across the
coverlet, red, abundant. In this bed,
the night so dark we swam in it, inky
black, lying side by side, limbs
on the stairwell, spiral steps snaking
down through chronicles of your
family, you closed your eyes
and kissed me, face sealed with
passion. I felt your lips against mine,
your body pressed against mine,
and fell, fell into my dreams.