When I close my eyes I see Coventry House. In the darkness, as I lay down to sleep, I see the stone frontage in the glow of the late afternoon. The sunlight glints off the upper windows and the air is heavy with the scents of magnolia and salt. Ivy clings to the porch archway, and a magpie pecks at the lichen coating a limestone roof tile. Smoke seeps from one of the great chimneystacks, and the leaves on the unfilled lime avenue are May green and cast mottled patterns in the long drive.
Everyone is just out of sight. I can hear the ring of the drinks tray being prepared; on the terrace, a bowl of pink camellias rests on the table. And in the bay, fishing boats bounce on the tide, nets cast wide, the slap of water against wood. I wait for him as I am not exiled yet.
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