35, Portland Row
I am their safe haven, the place they lay their heads.
I reach over them, around them. In me, they find their beds.
Take shallow steps, twixt railings; climb over iron band.
Raise your key, turn the lock, push my door with your hand.
.
My tiles: brown squares and white, in patterns go before,
Sunbeams through the fanlight, "35" lies on the floor.
A bench, a bike. My walls wear masks, and here and there, a gourd.
Below an antique hanging, umbrellas, and a sword.
.
A hallway full of treasures, glazed doors let in the light.
A staircase rises upwards, and then another flight.
My top floor is the attic. It s Lucy's space, her joy.
Comfort, warmth and safety, Lockwood's nursery as a boy.
.
Now he's grown and older, he sleeps two floors below,
And in-between a secret place, at night, an eerie glow.
In George's room, there's books galore, and papers stuck to walls,
Diagrams and blueprints, and snaps of stately halls.
.
Right now, my Library's empty, my living room is too.
My kitchen is the beating heart, where teapot stands to brew.
Around the wooden table, my family sit with friends.
Except for George, who's cooking, the oven he attends.
.
Holly passes round fresh mugs to each and every one.
A bowl of fruit, the centrepiece; and on each plate, a bun.
Kipps is being arty, drawing on the cloth.
Flo leans forward quickly and I can hear her scoff.
.
Lockwood looks at Lucy, a gaze of quiet love,
Two broken hearts are mending, I see that from above,
Lucy's smile is gentle, their fingers softly brush
Their journey's just beginning, devotion without rush.