Real Estate (Poetry)

I live in a house that’s much bigger than this —
the house in my head has fifty-plus rooms —
all of them longer and lighter, they spread
to accommodate everything gathered and saved —
a storehouse that’s spacious — a treasure-filled cave
that rambles — expansive — with wild woods for grounds.

It’s full of potential — I’ve plans to extend
I’ll landscape the garden — add follies and things —
a ballroom for parties — the great and the good
invited for concerts, plus dinner, and should
anyone famous stay on for the night
a guest room ensuite with gold-plated taps.

An oak-panelled library, warmed by the sun
through a pair of French windows
I fancy I’ll build —
the blueprint’s already mapped clear in my mind
and a music room with a piano — a grand
maybe a Steinway — a rich-glowing wood —
its keys worn with playing — the imprint of hands
who practised sonatas on wet afternoons.

A house well-appointed with mod cons and all —
black and white marble tiles in the main entrance hall
and a grandfather clock chiming loud on the hour
stained glass and alcoves, long landings with doors
numbered discreetly or named — a small plaque
so visitors know where they can and can’t go.

It never needs cleaning — no upkeep — no cost
to this property bordering fantasy street —
exclusively freehold — a residence fit
for the harmless eccentric who dreams to move on
so view it at leisure — drop by and relax —
no traffic — no neighbours — there’s only the moon
beaming a welcome across a new mat —
the self-contained annex will be vacant soon.