The Mustard Tree

It really was a shell hole of a place

Shop fronted, tall glass windows

And a rotten floor masked by carpet

In the forward showroom no-mans land.

Of course dreamers and visionaries

Would smile and see potential

Where there was decay

But this was not “homes under the hammer”

Instead it was me, my dreams, my hopes.

There was so much left behind

And that summed up the shop

Leaving it so, we mounted the stair

Winding, crooked, going down

To a back room full of Beeswax,

Wire wool, rags and boxes

Glue and cans

Varnish hardened brushes

Tables with no tops

Tops with no finish

Chairs with no seats

Windows without glass

Fireplaces abandoned to winter’s

Harsh entrance to Eliot’s dream.

We remount the stairs and breathe

That rarefied atmosphere

That is bereft of oxygen and filled

Instead with the damp

So many tears here the rooms still wet

With unredeeming features.

Then up again towards the summit room

Where skylight brings its warmth

The Kitchen supper room

Cabinet filling splendour

Before you were born David

And more warmth there

Than you’ve have had hot dinners

Gaslight mantled walls

Fueling my Hope that maybe this would be

My big society for highway

And byway dwellers.

The inspectors like all their kind

Show no approving sign

That this could be a place

To bring them in

A kingdom not of this world

A place to gather and drink

With all who are thirsty.

Networking relationships

Formed in a water hole pecking order

United by parching desire where

Carnivores can drink with ruminants

A Mustard tree for every fowl created

A roost for sparrow, dove and hawk

So risking all I had for rent

I drove the stake into this ground

I dreamed the dream

Sole tenant in a sojourn

Hoping for Jubilee