Shorn sheep warm themselves in the sun
shade under the crooked trees

a bathtub tilted to a trough
the dike ditch a ribbon of red algae

peeled signs on the border
water and land

the rippling nibbling on the slope
grass beds along the crest-path

I walk along the wide water
no screeching tyres here

sometimes on Sou'wester days
the seagulls and the wind

laundry flapping at the back
white as the sails in the lurid light

the sea level silvered by the sky
the horizon bent between the banks

the water arches over the green valley
swaying and waving seaweed nymphs

charm beneath the waves
treasures seemingly for the taking

golden yellow stones in the Shire Sea

No fast traffic here
no high steel and concrete
in the streets, but
walkable space

The sun draws attention
away from us, towards the light
on the black facades on the harbour
the white cornices and red tiles:

the picture for the photos
of the tanned tourists
on the terrace of the tanhouse
who walk into our gardens

as if we live here
in an open-air museum
and should praise
their silly insolence

as a decent interest
But we can live with it
The visitors walk around
in a parallel reality

and we have real neighbours
a wide sky, the wide water
and the green island
We can breathe here

as the wood breathes
in the seasons
as the wind breathes
in the grass