I loved the space you help within your walls,
The shouldering beams,
The creepers standing out along the stones like veins,
The moist and private places,
Rare, so shy, so easily dispersed,
The shadow from a fallen tile, where a fern took root,
And high above, the sunlight
Sifting through a loose weave of wood.

When you have borne our urge to resurrect,
The sting of hammers,
Sharp sorrow of a sapling stump,
A raw crack in weathered stone;
When you’ve become our architecture and assemblies,
Something more ourselves than other,

Let us not forget one summer night,
The bonfire high, the old beams blazing,
How we sang and danced,
Our shadows flying on your walls,
How we lay down beside you
In a bed of straw and stars,
And listened to your close breath,
The settling of a stone,
A tile falling in the dark.