Tendrils of time from the garden
that is Wordsworth,
the flowers and the foliage
draping themselves across the centuries
and falling like a fringed shawl
around my shoulders.
I sat down not once but twice
in Wordsworth’s writing chair
in Dove Cottage,
as if staking my claim
of homage and kinship.
Dove Cottage: the fireplaces,
the stone floor, the wood furniture,
even a room with newspapered walls.
The ceiling was low in his home.
People were shorter in those days,
the guide said.
A hive that once hummed with poetry.
And I — happy to be in the Lake District —
caught up in the mood of the moment,
sat down in Wordsworth’s writing chair
(dark wood and a hard seat,
despite the rosy inlaid cushion),
happy that I had championed his oeuvre.