Peter’s New House


Belladonna Lilies_27 FEB 2019

Every single room has you still moving in.
Is that old life there the new life here?
Boxes half block out a whole passage to invention.

The door to the cellar gapes open at our feet.
It provides a glimpse into one man’s underworld,
largely empty at present but warning

of thwarted life. At ground level, details of the “you”
you chose/choose to be: a computer screen like a TV
stacked with topical icons; a monumental drum-kit —

this occupies the living room, and inhabits a rhythm
that can never let go, rapping out questions
in search of a sound track, exactly

shaped like the hook you wield to ease down neatly
out of the ceiling the ingenious wooden step-way
up to the attic — inspired afterthought

straight off the top of your head. Gingerly we climb aboard,
neighbours to the clouds, the room egg-whitened with light.
Through the windows, yellowing dense phalaris

and belladonna lilies — February’s pink “naked ladies”.
On one wide wall, our motto’s inscribed in essential black letters:


Wisteria Flowers

We assume they will,
but one day they may never come back . . .


Spring, springs ― they wither and dry
out of our control, then: miracle. Nothing
in our social engines emulates this growth magic
on Earth.


Ask yourself till you’re blue in the face ―
sky-blue in the face, even:
Who, who will they put in charge
of the science of robot-blossoms?


Is this how we wish to be remembered:
the first women and men
to dismiss utterly the scented luxury of a solid carpet
of flowers . . . ?