Maison Neuve

It was home, nonetheless, when we got here,

though stiff from the drive and our sea-legs

unsteady; the Channel's no mill pond.

Here the wind whisks the trees, birds, leaves,

breath to a frenzy. The acorns fall heavy

and the pigeons fly blind into nets set by hunters.

Wednesday. A truce-day for walkers: no gunshot.

It could almost be England, crunching the leaf-fall,

playful, scuffling for mushrooms in undisturbed woodland.

We've stacked the logs close, swept the flue,

and unpacked our novels, trimmed wicks, counted candles.

Winter, provided for, won't be unwelcome.

And of course, there's the phone. And photos. And email.

How did they do it? Crossing the heartless Atlantic,

the Prairies. Home in a lock of hair, locket and chain.

Waterplay

That summer, the photographer arrived,

made a studio in the boathouse,

told me I was innocent; he liked

the way my ribs were ripples on the water,

taught me the frail look you will see

in all the pictures he took on the Wye,

the series he called Waterplay,

that made his fortune.

Older boys would always say

'Keep your mouth shut underwater,

otherwise the frogs get in.'

Sometimes even now I swim the river

open-eyed and open-mouthed

and let the flood-tide in.