Another part of At Home

The garden reeks of a season’s neglect,

the sweet, dank mould of cherry leaves,

parsimonious winter. Failing to make

amends; pigeons coo arguments

from an outhouse roof.

You ham it up by calling it regret.

The moon’s blur lights an island of cloud.

Nothing’s out of place but your self –

or that’s what you’re thinking

(if that’s your voice you hear speaking),

but it’s doing you no good.

Originally published by Various Artists; copyright Tom Phillips 2012