A random place but one we made
once we wandered to it,
one peopled at first by only we two,
unearthed from the hillside and shored
in grey stone. The walk and the roof
forever snowed under, the regular ambient howl
of some cave still unfound and unlit
dress the scene more as outpost than home.
But the whole of it’s mortared
in loving you, and the walls we might line
now with lapis we set in when iron was dear,
our room with its gold clock and hearth
bloomed out from an anchorite’s alcove,
its fire impossibly constant.
Now out from a visitor’s parapet I watch
for sunrise, every ounce with me a treasure –
worn tools left behind to fit diamond and pearl –
waiting for daylight to start the walk home.
