Not A House

From the side it looked Careless, yet precise

Just a pretty house, Each and every pane

With church-like windows            Of glass, each roof tile

And a cupola, Appeared on paper,

Neat, cream-colored boards Made transportable

Set on rugged stone.                 By my kindly pen.

"I will capture you," “There now, I’ve got you,”

I whispered softly;                         I said from my seat

I set pen to page,                       Across the garden,

To write, no, to draw;                   Sticking my new sketch

To lend permanence                   Jauntily between

To the little house. The leaves of a book.

Scribbles took on shape, Getting up to leave,

Forming, bit by bit, I walked round the front;

The hedgerows, the trees,           My eye was caught

And a garden wall; By the cross on the door;

Then the house itself,                 “I am not a house,”

With church-like windows.            It said -- “God lives here.”