Beyond my window the mountain hangs like a curtain
pinned at one end by the castle.
Vineyards almost half way up it, vines in rows;
then a dull-green and tawny waste.
Partridges breed in the wasteland and call throughout the spring
asparagus grows there wild
and as the year wears on
a snake-eagle rides steady on the wind
gazing down with orange eyes:
august moons rise behind the castle
and in the winter the dog-star
heaves up, a splendid lamp.