finches dream (unfinished)
The days are passing as within a haze
In this old house of light and wood and greenery.
Arriving, I am careful to watch
Demeanours. She is ice, and I am still.
We pass the time between the kitchen and
The sitting room, where history is wont to happen.
We make food, consume it as we talk, and
Laugh about vicissitudes of holidays.
The matriarch, she feeds the snake and cat
And, tangling underfoot, the little dog belonging to my wife to be
Is begging for leftovers or a crumb
Which—so much manna—falls down from above.
And so, whilst washing dishes I there watch
My love for my love there so amplified, enlarged,
As magically now appear the dishes
That the women here have cooked for me.