When she moved in, baggage crammed
with nick-knacks, clothes, jewellery
and several hundred compact discs --
soundscapes from exes now released,
I knew I had to mark out ground
before the suggested flower beds,
patio and orchard spread,
engulfing my neglected patch.
I built a shed, facing the sea
made from macrocarpa planks
where I could sit into the night,
and as the laptop's whirring fan
accompanied my dancing hands,
write convoluted streams of thought,
then on the window's morning dew
draw stick-men dancing in the sun.
When she moved in there was a troupe
of women who'd come round for tea
they'd lay out blankets on the lawn
repair the world all afternoon,
correct the errant ways of man
with cake and Latinate discussion.
And so it was when she moved in,
the shed complete, I moved out
into a world of woodlice, dust
and corrugations dripping rain,
where tools are hung and slowly rust,
and sideways glances shuttered out.
Here, flies and spiders share the best
laid schemes of men and nesting mice,
even the neighbour's cat it seems
enjoys the hissing iron stove.
I sit interred and contemplate
my sacred cave where silence reigns
now comfortable enough to be,
a hunting lodge; a lover's grave.