By Emily Tesh

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.

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