I planted that corner so I could see from my bed
an iota of order in a garden of dread,
now these early mornings when I sit there and stare,
I've a pang of regret for what I sat where;
It's growing, all growing, just like I schemed,
but now it's obstructing the faraway scene:
It's a two-storey, two-chimney house of all white,
surrounded by green and moody by night.
It would look right at home in very fine framing
and could pass for a genuine Rainsford Ryan painting.
It's a dream in the fog, blurred all around
and dazzling in sun, almost over pronounced.
It's skin deep, of course, I can't judge the depth,
but it's no hardship to see a breathtaking breadth.
It's the first thing I look for every day
but the plants that I sat are growing in the way.
We're soon to be parted , no longer connected,
when I reap the result of a narrow perspective.
(I have never even noticed the house when we pass it on the main road, but, from my bed, it has looked like a picture for a long time. I can't see it anymore and I miss it. It is stunning, surrounded by green fields with the backdrop of Croughaun Hill. Obviously, I'm not going to take a photo of someone else's house but Emily Rainsford Ryan is an Irish artist, and if you look at this post of hers you might get an idea of what I'm referring to in the poem.
I wrote this back in April and I am very happy to report we regained control of the garden over the Summer. I mightn't be waking up to the view of the house I love but at least our garden is no longer dreadful).
