Would you ever live
in Heather Green
with a lamp missing a tassle
from its shade?
Lit tealights in the glass holders on
the rented windowsill
occasionally Assam from
loose leaves in a pot.
Would that be a life
to live?
Where there’s no need
to mow lawns on a Saturday
because you own no lawn
in Heather Green.
Where there is little heather, too.
But Green there is
in eco-consciousness and Budgens
I imagine
it must be so.
—
I know someone who moved seventeen times during one calendar year from one rented room to another in London. The opening question, “Would you ever live in Heather Green?” probably derives from an eavesdropped conversation on the bus about a London lodging search. This poem sparked some thoughts about rented room circumstances. Tomorrow’s poem, London’s Molten Hour, will continue the theme.
—
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