The Rayburn smells of cold cast iron, 

coke-dust crunches on the sooty floor

and two mugs stand varnished with last week’s tea.

Our coats hang like bats from their hooks,

stiff empty boots expect work. I unpack,

shove holiday clothes into the wash.

I forgot to empty the bedroom bin,

and the pillows smell of your hair.

I open the curtains to the evening sun

and there’s the land: crushed-velvet hills

rolled and folded with light, birch twigs shining

deep red against riverside pines, and distance

green and grey and blue forever.

Tomorrow I will clean the windows.

Sue Millard