Beyond the boys playing cricket on the sand the sun was suspended in the west

We sit on a pier to watch it set and realise we are facing home, the same sky, the same sinking into the sea

Here, though, I look directly at it and it doesn’t stain my eyes

It is a yolk, a penny, pollution

Quietly turning the blue sky shades of pink and green

And really only the clouds catch the colour

And that night I dream a dream of doorways

And he is buying cats and leaving them in my garden

Offering them, one by one in the crook of his arm

There are low ceilings, white walls and yet it is all circumstantial

Are you engaged in agriculture or independent of geographical limitations? he asks