Emberson House

It’s better to leave the dust where it is.
There are no ghosts
only clouds that gnaw at the windows.
There is no locked room. No mystery.
That’s unfortunate. Yes.
Oh, there’s that singing again.
I must have left a radio on up there,
or it’s Adrienne practising the Messiah.
The stairs, by the way, are multi-purpose.
This is the Main Library, of course.
I’ve booked a pantechnicon for next week,
all will be gone. Well, go on through:
the ceilings are all hand stitched,
the carpets are wet with moss.
The front door sticks.
I broke all these statues myself:
arms, noses, penises, some ears.
I was going to make a Classical collage
in my studio. It didn’t work out,
but I still have all the pieces .
That’s the glory hole,
surprisingly useful
even in such a big place. Oh,
Emberson? A local GP.
He had the house built.
Lived alone here for fifty years.
A happy man they say; he died in bed.
Yes, this one. Quite a positive, I think.
We’re number 13093, as in Orphée,
just off the A616. Perfectly placed.
The postman always seems to find us.
Now. Let me show you the tower,
it’s amazing:looking down
there’s a precipice and a raging torrent
buzzards floating by below. In the spray
there’s a rainbow.
I never get tired of it. And in autumn
I just sit and watch the dead leaves whirling
and falling such a long way.
You’ll like it.
We just decided we needed something smaller.