My China House. (Revised).

On my kitchen shelf I keep a china house.
A cream-white house with a yellow roof,
and pale green vines flat on the wall.
The front door is pink, the windows pale blue,
the shutters a paler pink than the door.
Tiny red grapes hang from the vine,
and have flourished there one hundred years,
never to be picked and crushed into wine;
never to be thieved by whispering children.
The door cannot open. The windows are blank.
It seems only secrets can dwell in this house,
my cream-white house with no ceilings, no floors,
no lounges, no bedrooms, no rickety stairs,
no bath to relax in for long hot hours.
This house may seem useless, a box that is empty,
but it is there, when a child, I stored hopes and dreams.
I tossed my wild dreams up into the air
and watched them float down the porcelain chimney.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
26th. - 30th.  March 2020.