Tab end of her Peter Stuyvesant.
Stump of his Panama. Or neither.
Sea urchin for a lampshade.
The glass chimney of a brass paraffin lamp.
The arm chairs and sofa –
sand coloured with caramel stripes.
A tall mirror leaning against the wall,
a threshold into a room with a sloping floor.
Come in, come in…
Place your feet on grape coloured carpet.
Good isn’t it, the way the sun follows you in here?
Windows. See the rumps of cows being herded up the road.
Hear the trudge of rubber boots on tarmac. The yips and ‘get on with yer’
calls of the stick swishing farmer now passing the churchyard,
the wooden cross belonging to the old sea captain.
The glass chimney falls and shatters.
You swear you didn’t move, touch it.
But when they come back they won’t believe you.