The House at Crowholes

The house, taller than it is wide, stands
clear and prim in the low wooded valley
it inhibits with its comely presence, gables
demurely covered with a film of rain.

The brick is dark red, the slate dark grey.
The white soffits shine round the roof's edge,
and the black drains lightning down past windows
blankly facing out towards the ground,

where bins, fencing, hardy shrubs and late
lean-to additions promise residence.
Flashes of white saloon are visible through
the rain and foliage. I fancy the steam of food

in the gravel yard. The pond, unruffled,
lies politely at a distance down
where the mud-track terminates. Its single boat is
tethered to the jetty, opposite the ducks

sheltering under the overhanging trees
where the pond, and field, end. The water, like
the house's windows, sucks the pale light
from the sky. Sitting in a meadow across

the valley, I hope I don't see who lives there.
Below me the powerlines run in their low-slung arc,
which is the kestrel's favourite perch, although
today he's elsewhere; sheltering, too, probably.

(the "next" paddle will take you to another poem by this author)