Poem for the Day - On Entering the Big House (from the Irish Suite)

 
On Entering The Big House

                         

The drumlins of County Monaghan lie cool

in acreage earth. Moist air meets the wind, as it

mutters along. Its tall façade, far above eye-level,
pinks in certain light, smooths a grey slate roof.

This is how it looks beyond its flashing. Conical

spires and gables filled with rich attention. The

side door is an entrance to staff, couriers on their

rounds, rummaging in the backs of vans.

Perhaps, large shoulders of a Nobel winner have

already moved in. Stooped to touch the floor for a

green scarf. The poet’s coat simply falling off, one arm

first, the tweed shouldered from the right.

You imagine a quiet Gaelic tune inside, keys

tinkling in the piano room - a practice for sound. 

The office ladies welcoming in the hall, saying,  
Come in. Come in! Tis good you’re here.

Ah! there at the top of the stairs, linen and towels,

and with every good sense an oak desk, mirrors
to double your view, a chaise lounge, brass bed

tall and plumped for a three-week comfort.

While you, by day, settling on a selection of books

for an evening read, will walk in the afternoon

beside the lake, beside hedgerows, the way forward
with a greying, energetic kelpie-cross racing ahead.