A converted pink rectory.
A pink, beshrubbed universe in the heart of Essex.
A new world with a compact, gravel car park
Cushioned from the road by yew trees and hedgerow.
Low ceilinged rooms wait for 30 guests.
It's wrong that the lights are on and nobody's home.
The breakfast room's welsh dresser shows cereal cartons and three brown spotted bananas.
Apart from us there's no one that knows.
We make a fire.
And cook extravagant meals for two.
We tip toe around.
Losing and finding each other in the closed rooms.
Filling the corridors with the sound of creaking boards.
After the rustle of morning papers.
And low moans.
After childlike pillow talk there's nothing except amazed silence.
Wandering how the other is now they're in their own zone.
Emotional stretch wound in to sit on the very tip.
Not ready, yet to slip.
A romantic walk amongst the motorways.
Under a cloud watered sun.
The first bluebells,
Burn blue in rain wet greens.
This'll be how I remember you.

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