Family Home, Lincolnshire

and from the summerhouse, the view
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
where stood the Air Force quarters of a few
of England’s Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond —
the orchard’s gorgeous blossom, later fruit
for village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor’s hands can see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins’ grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of London’s politicking stress. I have
a cherished weekend refuge where I come,
say, ‘Hello House. Restore me.’ I am home.