This is a house whose windows
open out to the sea.
Fallen across the road,
a tree toppled by the whirlwind
and a broken nest with two fledglings.
The mother-bird, gone in search of food,
will seek out the tree
on her return.
This is a house whose windows
open out to the sea.
I open my computer.
I read the email that arrived today.
A single line, like a poem,
makes me forget all the rest.
The rain pours down suddenly, like a god.
This is a house whose windows
open out to the sea.
Through the windows of a bus,
a mountain passes by.
A goat that stands on a rocky ledge
reaching for a bunch of leaves
must be someone’s prey, by now.
This is a house whose windows
open out to the sea.
Someone shouts at someone else.
Cars, screeching to a stop,
call my attention away
from the cinema song
blaring out from the tea-shop.
This is a house whose windows
open out to the sea.
A pervading scent
of gratified desire
mingles with the smell
of the fish curry simmering next-door.
From a neighbour’s house somewhere
a telephone rings.
In this house whose windows
open out to the sea,
you and I
are fish in a glass bowl.