In my other house all the books are lined on shelves
And may be taken down in a curious mood.
The postman arrives with letters to all the family,
The table is spread and cleared by invisible hands.
It is the dead who serve us, and I see
My father’s glass and the bottle of sour stout at hand
Guarding his place (so I know it cannot be real;
The only boy with six sisters never learned
To set a table, though books lined up at his command).
In this room with a fire, books, a meal and a minute
When everyone is out of sight washing their hands,
A man comes through the door, shedding his coat;
He turns like a dancer before it touches the ground,
Retrieving a lily from somewhere. Where he has been,
You turn out your pockets every time a door is opened;
But the flower has travelled with him and he is in safe hands ––
On the shelf a letter for him flashes a wide bright stamp.
He mutters once more, Here goes, in the name of God ––
Women’s voices sound outside, he breathes deeply and quickly
And returns to talk to the fire, smiling and warming his hands ––
In this house there is no need to wait for the verdict of history
And each page lies open to the version of every other.