“This is my happy place,” you say,
and make it so with naked girls
and ancient books; sunflowers,
soft armchairs, opened writing desks,
a framed window with flower box;
pots and hedonistic rugs.
My happy place might share most things:
different girls perhaps, and books;
more plants, a clarinet and maps –
scents of summer, apple trees;
water too, for evening swims;
a seed table for birds.
I wonder though, to balance this –
for every happy place we make
might there not be as well a sad,
unhappy place, with pots unfilled;
fires unmade, and a woman –
unopened and unread?
There is a sign above the fireplace in the small and very cosy cottage we stayed in last week (see Human landscapes below) which says “This is my happy place”. I have only met the owner twice, and he and his wife seem very happy, so apologies for the third verse. The sign and lovely house prompted reflection.