Stroanfreggan

I hope I remember the house on
the third cattle grate,
bread bin post box and deep stone wall.

The school room where children,
miles from home, once learnt grammar,
long division, and how the air feels
after heavy rain
smells of wood smoke.

Our jeans are drying over the stove,
and we sleep on the sofas amongst
glasses of red wine and
spatchcocked poetry books
as the sun struggles out
over the slate pine cone at the
top of the hill,
where we imagined
a tin box containing
a handful of marbles,
the secret of the Rayburn.