a wedge of rain,
a prism of drops,
the possibilities of thrown light
through a frame in a gable end
that is both sides sky

as more than
two of the four walls
unlucky storms and the most
observant of the valley bred masons
have tumbled to rubble,
built into new barns,

but a jamb of
shaped stone poised
now three degrees off true
and blocks of great limestone built
staircaselike at the north west corner
still balance a sliver of house

towards the
waxing moon, the sunrise
in spring and autumn, and those rare alignments
of celestial orbits when sun and moon
play firelight and darkness
through the dreamt glass.

so stasis earned?
no, nothing is certain now,
for a rowan seed lodged close in a pile of muck
at tupping time some twenty years ago,
bent to a full tree, spreads
greedy limbs and roots.