The Pineapple House

It welcomed us with a surprise,
the sun shining down on a leftover
from a giant's birthday-party, a slab of cake
topped by a candle shaped like a pineapple.

Like curious children, we nosed
around the giant's toy-house: a lush
wood interior, a replete kitchen, well-stuffed chairs,
whisky books and highland dances.
The log-book loaded with a snap-shot weight.

Through the windows, the lawn,
where neatly ordered trees were sprouting
Spring's first growth and carrion crows hopping
on parade. We snipped the first attempts
of honeysuckle to gain entry to the kitchen.

As our honeymoon ended,
we searched the undergrowth, the ruined
church and the lost graveyard.
We scared pheasants and scattered rabbits.
The Earl of Dunmore's pile quietly
decayed through unripe corn.

That afternoon, we talked to the tethered dog,
and wondered at a greenhouse with pineapples
this far north. The Earl bent down before
James the First to present him with strange
fruit. I knelt before you and captured
your face beneath spikes
that brushed white-haired clouds.