Three hundred and thirty three

Things have moved into your house from my past. 

I forgot about them for months on end, 

boxed away,

but here they are now: 

living a new life.

Here is a piece of my history, they seem to say -

held out to you with love and joy and promise.

I think about where they’ll go one day.

On a dresser, in the countryside?

I never thought I wanted to live in the country before, 

not until I met you. 

I thought the quiet might kill me.

Now I long for the hush of trees,

no neighbours for miles,

you walking into a flagstoned kitchen,

a dog trotting by your side. 

Perhaps we’ll grow our own curly kale. Purple sprouting broccoli. 

Dig our own potatoes.

What if we have ducks, 

what will we call them? We could name them after

Jilly Cooper characters. 

I roam endless maps in my mind, 

wondering where we could go. 

But for now, 

pour me the kind of wine that feels like a kiss.

Red season has begun,

haul out my old wine glasses, rediscovered.

I cook in your kitchen, knowing my way around.

You ask me, what would you be doing today,

if we hadn’t met?

I struggle to think. Filling my diary with a million things,

no rest, no calm.

Now it’s a deep sense of peace. 

Padding through your house in my slippers.

Lighting the good candles. 

Watching the kitsch dance of your lava lamp,

waiting for you to say oooh that’s a good one, look,

the lava lamp is having a good time!

You told me you think I might be repairing your heart. 

I don’t know if I am; I think that’s you,

taking great care with your stitches, 

making them neat and in line,

concentrating hard. 

I think about when we’re apart, 

you’re still there, both in my heart and in your home,

lighting the good candles, 

pouring wine into one of my old glasses,

going about all your usual things but 

loving me while you do them. 

We count the days we’ve 

known one another (three hundred and thirty three). 

I hope we always do.