This time we’re seeing from a hiding place,
pointing stuff out – the window, heater,
Boston fern – in the interior, which is a picture
in the corner of the room, a bit unfinished,
as if an upset woman might burst in holding a letter
any minute now. The walls are white,
like a museum. There’s ivy growing out from
not the top shelf but the next one down
and water in a half-drunk plastic bottle on the desk.
Within the water there’s another image of the room,
reflected, bending at the sides. You can’t quite see it
yet because we’re standing too far
from the door, not entering for fear of
causing a disturbance. In the reflection
there’s a third person as well,
but when I turn around they’ve gone
which is a joke I’ve played on you before.
The house is built among some pine trees
that are being cut down to make timber frames.
You sometimes hear a rifle going off
some miles away, which is a deer shot through
the neck, or just some people
killing time by firing hot rounds at the air.
Tonight there’s an eclipse, but it’s too cloudy
out for us to know. Instead, the empty
stairwells and the armchairs start to creak.
Divining through the long grass on the island
we find bone. Perhaps, you say, the bone’s a sign,
a way of answering a problem that you’re spending
your days struggling through. Back in the kitchen
it looks strange among the cutlery and tiles
and I resent not knowing which part
of which animal it shaped so throw it out
after a day or two.
A man arrives holding a lute.
The young girl sitting takes a glance in our direction
but there’s no way she can know we’re here.
When she turns back her face is difficult to read,
like making someone out in fog. We let the moment
pass, insofar as we have a say, and head
into the morning with our packs and loaded guns.