Tŷ Meirion

When we came to this house
it was sullen:
the walls damp with self-pity,
the staircase gone,
the concrete frigid as ice,
the remnants of limp kitchen doors,
the wood-burner rusted to cold.

These rooms were too chilly for ghosts,
places to store meat or milk
while we camped overhead,
painted and built like Gipetto,
till the weight of the house
shifted.

Doors opened,
stones limbered and flexed,
floors changed their tunes,
water drummed through the pipes,
the stove cleared smoke
from its soot-blackened lungs,
and the windows
eased warmth through their panes.