The poet’s house is glued to the field
the breath of the land touches its window panes,
scents of fresh furrows, of bier,
of ripe blackberries and mown grass roll in.

It feels different
in the dark.

Books
with fire their core
shed a subdued light.

The poet comes home every evening
to this house, built for others once.

The level of the invisible sea is marked in stone
at the entrance just above the grass.

The grandfather clock that stopped ticking
generations ago
has found its soft old sound again
telling true time.

The poet’s house
glued to the field

non-distance
naked embrace

Oxfordshire