The houses large as limestone cliffs, Victorians
invoked by Dickens, transplanted
here. This brown hill stuck
with grey trees.
Between them room enough for a smart coachman to step down from his trap
run to the servant’s entrance, inquire
on behalf of his master. Later, to warm himself
there, rubbing his hands by a thin faggot sunk in ash
joking with the stable boy, windows grey with steam.
Now it’s not so lively,
gone are stable boys, coachmen, servant entrances, exits,
comings, goings. Instead, in a kitchen
across the way, I watch as a man gets up, sits down, alone
in a large bank of lit windows, his movements regular
as dance, or making love.