I recognize the stars by their familiar position
but not the flowers in the neat border
I'm sure they have names and at a stab
I could hazard guesses
in overly accented english
while walking in the market square
we passed an estate agent's window
and as one does
we idled over pictures and imagined
not the reality of moving
but ideas of wafting sheets on a summer breeze
or the comforting low thrum
of a slowly turning ceiling fan
the oil of our meal is stained with saffron
we sip our wine
and watch the three legged mongrel
unconsciously mimic the fishing boat
drawing closer to the quay
The Blue Book
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