Walls are not blank. They soak in lives, each pore
in the mortar a pit to house outbursts and tears.
We chose the scheme together: a brush of faint cream;
a slice of simnel; a feather of fresh-hatched chick.
And so we paint: this emulsion stroke shall cover
the time we argued the length of a bottle of whisky.
I texture the colour with cobwebs, old nets to catch
forgotten meals, parties; the husks of anniversaries.
As the room grows in its new coat I follow your lines:
dab wet gloss on the skirting, wipe spats from my hair.
When it is done, we make a good memory - a kiss -
for the walls to record. A cat-hair glides in the fume.