The Glory of the Spirit

A low rumble without end.

It can’t be the sea. Gulls rise again.

Sky moving west, south-west.

Wind about the walled garden.

You’re sitting in a low cane chair

cushioned by a black and orange

floral squab. Over breakfast,

we redesign the block cottage.

Your genius is to give up

upon pointless ambition

and suggest the most essential cut.

The neighbour returns

in his grey, throbbing Porsche.

Their north-facing house

is worth twice this cottage

without improvements

and no appreciable view.