There are streets that wind round

like spirals in a sea shell;

our house is a living creature

set deep as a jewel

at the heart of them.

The rooms have long window seats

and trees almost touching

the sills outside;

spider webs lean from branch

to house like bridges with

long silver cables,  

pendulous in the wind.

Across the street children play

Statues and Mother May I

until after dusk;

a ginger cat lies beneath  

rhododendron leaves.

Everything has come right,

I have space for nurseries

and a good man who is not leaving,

but I do not have his seeds

which were tied away years ago.

I have no eggs or ovaries

but more than that,

I have no womb,

no pink center of my own spiraled shell,

no place to cradle a jewel- like creature

set deep like a heart.

I cannot call it an empty room,

there is no room.

There is only an echo, your voices

still here. They call

across the inner distances

like silver threads

cable by cable linking spaces

like bridges.