Telling the decades

Louise Carson

 

I visited the beautiful house last night,

last dream before I woke.

It was better kept than before but still

I was unsure – which entrance?

‘It reconfigures every time,’

I said to the friend beside me.

Inside we were a half-dozen women.

The oldest made tea in a red tea pot.

One, dressed as a man, soon left, muttering,

her one-woman show called ‘Groom.’

I sat chatting, my back to the lake, woke up happy.

The house wasn’t mine anymore.

Photo by Harry Rajchgot (2006)