Every now and then,
As I wander
Existentially from room to room of this
Darkened house, cheeks tight and
Pale with the October chill seeping through the
Walls, I have a moment of half-remembered
Ecstasy, a whiff of canvas and moss, a little
Epiphany when I catch a scent,
The palimpsest of something already faded and dusty,
Exhalations of centuries of youth redolent of the damp of rain on stone not lager on plastic.
Then I smile, give a little shiver,
And settle down with Chaucer.