The hours hung like ripe fruit when they saw it
in an area of mudbrick architecture.
The bank's loans valuer was reluctant.
A pet sheep was tethered in the house.
They engaged a bemused old carpenter
who installed windows, a toilet.
She now mourns the price they paid.
They built an interior bluestone loveseat,
scoured garage sales for trivial bargains.
She stained those window frames cordovan brown.
He glued ceramic tiles in a striking pattern.
Her parents bitterly disapproved, so
she showed off both their house and him
to left-wing friends who shared cask wine.
They sold the house to a young journalist,
now the skiing editor of their daily newspaper.
He wonders if the man is heavy, jaded, bleak,
or if he glides downhill reflecting the sun.
When he mentions the man's position
she is too far away to hear, too busy
for newspapers or trivia, the past.
By Ian C. SmithQLRS Vol. 11 No. 4 Oct 2012