To live at number sixteen,

where daily you can catch glimpses

of swans, pure as snow, floating past

the window. At winter, when a

silent, snowy morning can be

interrupted

by energetic yaps. To live

in the house on the dyke's bend,

where a serene stroll is only a moment away, to be

interrupted

by litter and bottles and the smokers

outside the pub.

The hooting of a tawny at night,

turned with the pigeons by day.

To live at number sixteen is

to arrive home to the overbearing stench

of sewage.