HOUSE
That house made of winter sky
with a sloped lawn at the back,
windows rattling like rigging.
A full moon, high tide, north-easterly wind.
Rabbits hung in the green shed,
a bag of turnips and sprouts on the doorstep.
Surely whoever was meant to come
would come soon, out of the sea or forest,
dragging himself to me.
The Poetry Business receives financial assistance from Arts Council England.
