Hillside
Recall the first day of our tenancy.It rained that morning. We taxied up in coolSeptember steam. Our neighboursAnd fatal gossip and a fishy towelWhile we waited for an agent with the key,The kind of easy dealing people lovedBefore disease shied us.Behind the parcelled garden, muntjacs hoofedThe scarp where Roman settlers once made midden,A public kitchen tiled with rescued shardsOf early leaves, the chestnuts first to reddenHere and fall, then as now. Coughing hardInto their hands with pleasure and in synchronyThe sculling crew across the terrace toked.A student flat. We would succeed a family.And three yards down, whose manicure evokedMy Yank imaginings of English hedge,A poet lived, dying, we later learned.The muntjacs caught our eyes and wouldn’t budge.The rowers since moved on. The poet mournedThe crowded island he had not believed‘Accessible’. We trade antipodesPerpetually, it seems. Then we arrivedOn a deserted shore that never seesA man who sails its waters and yet knowsHow to return. We tabulate the risks,Step out into the autumn leaves we choseAnd kiss our daughter through our cotton masks.Cyclists pass with slow morality,Conscience lately consciousness of farce.Double-parked,Removal vans have locked a classic hearseAgainst the curb, retired and unmarked.
