1.
I know there are termites; their tiny munching invades my dreams.
there are secret hollows in beams apparently whole. in places
the floor creaks alarmingly; enough rain
and enough lost shingles, it will come dripping in.
some of the locks have been broken, now temporary
arrangements of chain and two-by-four secure the doors.
a couple of windows boarded over, yes, and a dangerous stair,
all of these I have and more.
2.
When first you visited I showed you
the bits I'd fixed up: comfort and carpets,
lights that work. but you have an interest
in renovation; now I awkwardly invite you
to view the bare joists of the work in progress:
drifts of sawdust and plaster, spattered paint, scattered tools.
have a seat here on this pile of lumber and I'll show you
the blueprints of the dream.
3.
well, and this room I haven't really started on.
mind the step. oh hell, I'm sorry, I guess I forgot
how low that beam is or how tall you are.
is it bleeding? you're sure? well all right, that's it,
the damp patch, isn't it awful? the whole ceiling
has sagged in so low here there's hardly room to breathe.
yes, there's been a lot of damage I'm afraid, by weather
or by vindictive hands.
4.
and, well, there's a ghost or two, here and there.
no, not violent, they just tear at their chains and weep a bit.
if you're going to be here from time to time you may as well
know your way around.
-- GPL 1988 D. A. Clarke