Adelaide Terrace

Leaving the blue house, I turn back to the gaze

of Welsh hills, grey sea; sand grass and sea holly

wave at me. Swans fly low and settle on the water.

The estuary is still.

In the garden, a wedding rose clings to its trellis;

peony heads look down at their roots.

The crab apple tree has flowered white stars

for strangers’ eyes.

The piano room lies vacant; blank walls call out

to empty frames: Jean Miller’s yellow pears;

Matisse’s lemons; the family in Edwardian dress,

stiff as clothes pegs, smiling.

The pantry door is closing now, its patterned

quarry floor swept clean, as if for guests.

I wish I’d known an empty shelf, a set of hooks,

could look so sad.