The Habit of Light

In the early evening, she liked to switch on the lamps

in corners, on low tables, to show off her brass,

her polished furniture, her silver and glass.

At dawn she'd draw all the curtains back for a glimpse

of the cloud-lit sea. Her oak floors flickered

in an opulence of beeswax and light.

In the kitchen, saucepans danced their lids, the kettle purred

on the Aga, supper on its breath and the buttery melt

of a pie, and beyond the swimming glass of old windows,

in the deep perspective of the garden, a blackbird singing,