Memories of Askett

The post script to lunch was a little gwely*,

quiet for grownups in the drawing room

the older brothers shooed into the orchard 

with books to read on the moth-eaten rug.

I was placed to lie down in a still bedroom.

It seemed a landscape, the paisley feathered

eiderdown like hills, with pockets of flowers

that held the chill of the room. 

The oak bedstead, the ivory-backed hairbrushes, 

a glint from the clouded yellow peer-glass.

Lying moon-eyed, stiff as the starched pillowcase

I found comfort in a large handkerchief.

Dar Way’s warm silk square, frayed, tobacco-laced.

*gwely/bed