Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Yesterday, as alone I turned the key 
                      nervously in the padlocked
Victorian house, structurally intact,
                      I expected to find
Ghosts, living out their immortal lease. 
                      Today, as I moved
Suavely through lopped trees, central heating, widened 
                      windows ('It's so peaceful'), by
Her body, familiar in every mole, stretch and crease, 
                      but not loved,
At least unless these walls can be said
                      to love the dark oak lining them,
The house seemed much more haunted; 
                      though still none came
Gliding, frock-coated and dog- 
                      collared, or white-crinolined,
Through the immense cobwebbed
                      rooms, no muffed and tuburcular-
Flushed girls hovered by
                      a tennis-court long out of play
-Till suddenly a log
                      crashed from the long-extinct fire
-Till suddenly a keen wind
                      burst through french-windows sealed with rust,
And a giant paper-knife stabbed
                      the no-desk, stood there quivering.
'Poltergeist!'
                      I cried, and we stood frozen, shivering,
Closer than, except in bed,
                      we had been for a decade.
The wound closed; we resumed
                      our quiet passage through the vicarage.
'You can see the church from here. This
                       could be your bedroom.'
'This, I thought would do for her,
                       near yours. A dressing-room for when--'
'And the children
                       mid-way between us.'
'And this room is
                      where we could all meet
At times.' 'Here, you'll be able to write
                      in peace.' An instant her voice balanced,
Hand clutching the banister,
                      an instant. A painless divorce,
A roomier cage;
                     we glanced

Up at the rank of servants' bells, rusted black,
                     and smiled. I thought, poltergeists
Are menstruation-blasts,
                     some girl on the rack
Of her growth crucified,
                     in his sin-stabbing study of dark oak
Righting objects, books,
                     paper-knife, sign that her balance broke.
'We'll make a tennis-court.' Outside,
                     we slid into the car, our daughter,
Thumb in mouth, reading a comic, quiet.
                     I roughed her hair. Ignition umbrella'd rooks
To the sky's caul. Never was house so right
                     nor yet so sinister.