I haven't even got around to writing that letter

meant for you, so engrossed am I

with events transpiring hereabouts:

That redoubtable villa which sheltered us so long,

is revivified—those tiny tiles of mosaic

uncovered with pictures of what we used to make and do,

mud is crawling out the windows, murals of our feasts un-

peel—and more—weeds and bushes growing in our bedroom

are discharged, pushed on, like long-term convicts blinking

in the light, waiting for a bus, with dated suits.

Birds have been persuaded to review

their squatting strategy and fly away with mossy nests,

bats and insects flee the smell of bleach

and polished tables wait in place for unbroken china,

newly exposed sofas and chairs make encouraging

noises and voices from the kitchen are positively

singing. Cups swing on hooks, fridge sparkles like an iceberg

filled with fine new food and all detritus swept away

over the threshold sill—you wouldn't believe what's gone, I

am no longer ill.

And I contemplate the past pouring through the door

like a waterfall of tears and I,

a chuffed archaeologist with all this

stripped-out sediment, dross and veneer

—wheelbarrows full of old meanings, you know—

and the garden looks so different now, with its spoils

of industrial heaps of history.

But the same moon hangs on out there, edgy,

clearly not dead, clearly not enjoying

this exodus of seams of trash into

its silvery-beamed domain, but who cares?

You will be so pleased with it all I'm sure of it as I ponder

how to compose this letter to you—explaining the facts

of a big revelation and inviting you back.