sailing ships with
my eyes,

toes firm upon
land,

birds circling
until dizzy,

braced in sudden
a breeze,

summer rests its hand
upon my shoulder

to remind me
i’m seen

and stained into
the scenery.

’twas upon crooked
hill

that our house
leaned

as though to watch
us leave

for flusher
scenery,

as cracks turn
break

and paint becomes
flakes

may we never
glance
back

at its sorry
old state.

this place is for
holidays
only
,

we live in a room far
more dark and
empty

where walls hold
generations

of intentions confined
to frame
,

portraits snapped at
different
times

all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,

but we’re on
holiday.