The paddock gate is open, the paddock overgrown,

their horses, which have outlived them both,

stabled elsewhere. In the adjacent field

part of a barn’s compacted mud wall collapsed

in heavy rains long before their house was built.

August sun brightens the tumbled yellow earth.

Oak roof beams lean like broken columns.

Since I was last here, two years ago or more,

leylandii, planted as a hedge

along the paddock, have trebled in size

in this valley near the Pyrenees.

Their neighbours’ properties and the valley road

are hidden now by the hybrid cypresses.

On the opposite ridge, a buzzard calls

from somewhere in the ancient, pristine woods.

Wasps are building a nest under the eaves,

honeysuckle entwines the hibiscus,

and wild grasses sprout on the terrace.

But bees are busy with roses, and inside

all is as it was: their parents’ photos –

on the bookcase where they always were;

the glass cabinet of English crockery,

a wedding present; their riding tack

hanging by the back door.