Without friends in low-doored cottages
Beside the lichened walls of churches,
Or wild associates in country piles
With rotting sash windows,
A sitting room just for the cats
And drifts of broken-hearted furniture,
Or cousins who throw chaotic parties
In that fine old barn beside the lake
Where random guests rampage all summer night
And strip off intermittently for bathing,
And having no open-minded aunts
With famously hacked-about hair
In tiny little panelled flats
Just round the corner from this or that,
I wonder nonetheless –
Were some of the above unearthed not far from here –
If they might balk at the breath of my semi-detached,
Its plastic double glazing and grey pebble dash,
And their involuntary distaste give birth
To an insurmountable awkwardness
Causing more trouble than it was worth.
