That Day At Spreyton

It had been raining.
We looked out of windows
in pink stone walls
and saw the light all golden,
softened after the rain.
The winter afternoon drew in.

The windows still dripped
from overhanging vines.
The water blurred the glass
and the scene outside twisted.
We saw the grass pale green,
wet and freshened.

A scrap of visible sky
was gentle grayish-white.
There was a smell
not sweet, not tart,
but softly pungent, earthy –
the sodden, just-mown grass.

The sun for a moment
cracked the clouds,
for a moment glistened, dazzling,
striking the old shed and the water pipe.
Then the clouds moved
and the world returned to soft.

I always go back
to that day at Spreyton,
my grandparents' place.
In the room, pink walls were warm,
the fire burned gold and orange
over blackening logs.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

14-18/3/08