Damp

We live in a weaver's cottage built in the 1760s from poor quality sandstone. We've come to accept the lack of foundations and persistent cracking between its original stone-built footprint and the twentieth century extension. But there is one issue that keeps on reminding us all is not fixed - every couple of years we have to spend time and effort on the kitchen stairs. 

In our absence the wall has bubbled,

Flaking paint once more sprinkles the stairs. 

Each time we pass the accusing blisters

We try not to notice, to acknowledge our neglect. 

This wall has been demanding our attention,

And our cash, since we assumed its care,

Diagnosed as damp at the foot of the stairs,

Creeping up from the foundation-less floor

Creeping down from the porous stones round the front door. 

We've lavished it with attention, tried hard to sort it out,

It’s been re-mortared with lime, reluctantly plastered, 

Painted with clay paint to let it breathe;

But still the damp bubbles through. 

No point pretending it's not there, 

I'll soon take up a brush, remove the flaking paint, 

Rub it smooth where the plaster shows through,

Treat it to a new coat of clay paint

With a silent plea: this time please last a little longer. 

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