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Poem	We had a new house And split the decorating. You took the piled rolls of paper, While I stacked the cans of gloss, One to each corner-white-what else? And when we began our slow labour We did not even sigh except in some relief In being there at last. There were no spaces for our children’s visits Nor for the children they would never bring. All rooms sat square and small, but with Every outside wall a window. There was light Enough for a studio wherever you went, And for the tiny hall you chose A glazed blue bowl of your own making. The house stood on a hill, just a little Inaccessible but, in view of our age, others Had to be near and there they were, paired like Dominoes in black and white, or chequer board Squares with a neat red pillar-box Anchored on the corner. All the day of the moving I longed to be alone With you; for the men in their old-fashioned aprons To finish and be off and make space for you to squat And with your nimble fingers light the one real fire We had been allowed, so I could sit in my winged Windsor chair and decipher the text of the flames And savour the smoke before the up-draft caught; And for a few days there might seem little to say, The clay wet in the bin, the canvases heaped in the studio, And the faces in our children’s photographs stranger Than strangers.
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