Poem: ‘The House Through’
Andrew Motion, 20 March 1980
I
At the iron lodge-gates I melt for the first time, leaving rust unstirred, dew gripping a slack chain.
This is the drive I remember – a formal line through beech and open ground where horses graze as ever. So what if I
float close? What if then I touch one drinking? Slow and whiskery the warm head looms towards me, seeing
nothing but a rim of moss around the water-butt, trees, and...