This house is too well-known to me. It creaks
In high winds when the ocean blows them in.
It murmurs to itself. I hear the thin
Soft whispers of its voice pour through the leaks.
I think you hear them too. These old walls seek
To hem us like the mountains, pen us in.
The shore is where the prison-wall begins
And on the land the light is grey and weak.
But water catches sunbeams where they fall,
Reflects them back again all dizzy-bright
With split-gold meanings: ‘You could still be free.’
It’s true – though, for a little while, let’s stall,
And watch the sea-birds circle to gain height
Where cliffs divide the sunlight from the sea.