The patient house that dreamt of itself

Dormant for 300 years, empty as a monks' cell
dreaming of itself. It waited patiently staring
at the rain tapping out its own carnival.

It waited watching over generations
of cattle moving slow rhythms,
the barn own startling its solitude.

.

Then we bustled in a family of difference.
What could it have imagined?
Not the drum n’ base we’d thump into it.

Not the harsh drill of alarm clocks,
and toast that sprung up on it,
nor the attention-seeking dragon fruit,

the scent of lapsang, pouching, assam,
or the car which swerved lights around
its corners smoothed by centuries of carts.