In and Out

Now in September
it is more important
for you to know why I love you
than for you to love me.
This is my story; it is always the same:
You've blundered into my aged house,
near a pounding sea,
because I left my door unlocked.
You thought, like Goldilocks,
the house was deserted
until you found a fire burnt down to embers
and dinner not eaten,
the BBC declaring news
to an empty room in the night.
When you turn around
(this is how I remember it)
You see me, unstartled, and say hello.
You excuse yourself.
You say the door was open
and you wondered in winter
Why is it so.
You do not say you are lost,
only that the door was open.,
Nevermind I say. It was open for you,
and you came. Have some dinner,
I made chowder but ate the biscuits.

You sit in a windsor chair missing two rungs,
as perfectly as the letter L.
You ask if I have lived here long,
so near the sea
whch is always grey in January.
A long time, I say smiling. Forever.
You ask to wash the dishes, and call me dear.
Your eyes dance among my pictures
and your fingers along the keys of the piano.
"My library is in the barn, it fills the loft."
"That'nice" (you say) "that you read.
But you must learn to close your door."