The Domain
In the days when the house enfolded us
within vistas of passages,
each room opened out
like a bright fan. Bowls of white roses reflected
in a world of mahogany tables.
Our chairs were thrones. In the minstrel gallery
we plotted the
summer's grand manoeuvres
as needles of sun embroidered maps
on
the walls of the hall far below.
There were entrances framed by oak sills,
carved lintels, announcements
of thresholds
we never saw, lapped in our armour.
We galloped through.
Only at night, in sleep, we began to hear
beyond the cistern's
occasional gurgling
the faint percussion of doors slowly closing
in far-off wings we had roamed.
Jill Eulalie Dawson