Barbara Crooker

Annaghmakerrig, Ireland

And so, as the rain comes down in great sheets,
I’m having tea in the drawing room of a manor
house turned into a retreat, pretending
I actually live here, with a carved marble
fireplace, gold-crusted mirror, fruitwood
bookcase, parquet floors. There’s an old
wooden radio off in the corner, and I turn the dial,
think I hear Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw. The window’s
a screen of pointillist drops that jitter and jive their way
down the glass. It’s October, and the rose hips are swollen,
artillery shells about to explode. Someone’s lived by this lake
going back to prehistory. The wind whistles, a fife, as it blows
round the stones. My mug of tea is growing cold.