Two Little Rooms

If I lived in two little rooms

there would always be the smell of dogs and bacon…

there might not always be heat

but there would be cloth napkins in silver rings.

If I lived in two little rooms

there would always be woolen shawls and chairs that rock and beckon…

the wash might not always get done

but there would be freshly ground pepper.

 If I lived in two little rooms

the walls would be made of books…

shelves would groan under the weight of quarrelling volumes

jousting with one another for space and attention.

 If I lived in two little rooms

there would always be wine spilled on the table…

china pots would rest lazily near half-eaten muffins,

refugees all from the last tea-party.

If I lived in two little rooms

there would always be an open window…

there might not always be money

but there would be the scent of rain and a view of the stars.

 If I lived in two little rooms

the view of the world would filter itself through plantlife…

each window with its something green, rooting or flowering,

and this one or that one drooping lazily towards the sun.

If I lived in two little rooms

I would choose my visitors carefully…

there might not always be people about

but there would be frequent guests with tails and wings and whiskers.

 If I lived in two little rooms

evening would be a special time…

there would always be oil in the lamp and a fire on the grate,
and cheese and bread and mysterious stories

for those few late friends who would know the way.