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
by energetic yaps. To live
in the house on the dyke's bend,
where a serene stroll is only a moment away, to be
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