I doubt the place exists
– the ruins of a Roman house
on an island far from world,
overgrown, a labyrinth of rooms.
When children, cats and friends have left us,
we watch the sun set every night.
There’s a piano for the ghost to play on
and an antique harp, fondled by the wind;
sometimes they play together.
We have no garden but wild flowers grow
on old fundaments. We live
from what the Romans planted
and we find to eat. Sometimes
you leave me and row ashore
returning with chocolate and wine.
When you are here more and longer
to do the stuff I can’t, and me 🙂 ,
we watch how poppies grow, dandelions.
One day we shall take the boat out
to sea, leaving for ever in a mist,
leaving no trace –
I doubt the place exists.