Ardevora veor
AFTERTHOUGIIT A. L. ROWSE
Nor any motion of footfall Beneath ceiling or rafter by day: All laughter, all merriment over, The ghosts have their way.
A house alone with its shadows, The floors strewn with sharp glass, What may have happened here At Ardevora, Ardevora veor, What estrangement come to pass?
Only an echo replies Into the listening morn As the solitary sculler _Moves silently down river With the tide from Ruan Lanihorne. At turn of tide, clear sky, Seventh September morn, A boy goes sculling by Down river from Ruan Lanihorne.
The secret flats of the Fat Reveal unnumbered birds Mirrored in quiet waters: A world of stillness beyond words.
Behind a screen of elms A deserted house is there, Haunted by its echo- Ardevora, Ardevora veor.
A herring-bone hedge of stone, A lodge at the entrance gate. An orchard of unpicked apples: For whom, or what, does it wait?
Evidences of former love And care on every side, The anchorage, the quay : No-one comes now at the turning of the tide.
A planted berberis sheds Its berries on the ground; From the windlass and the well No movement ever, and no sound.
The pretty panes are broken. Blackberries ripen on the wall : Peer in through the windows, Whence no-one looks out at all.
No-one looks out any longer Across the creek. to the farm; From candle-lit doorway to attic No signal of joy or alarm;
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