a poet weeps verse
to liberate meaning from
the fetters of words.
Own a house by the sea – New Zealand or the Andamans – with two dogs and a cat. Persian, preferably.
The house must be a little walk to the sea. The walk can be lined with a makeshift fence made of standing stones, barbwire and neglect.
Lots of woodwork.
Plenty French Windows with billowing white drapes.
Poets lining my shelf.
A book on the galaxies.
One big (D?)SLR, with three lenses (one wide).
A film-developing room (optional).
A full wall dedicated to photographs. Mostly black and white.
A rosewood guitar. Maybe with nylon strings.
An open kitchen that melts into the living room, which has low level seating and plenty big, happy coloured cushions.
The existing music deck, with plenty more music.
A wooden gate made by hand.
Of course, a few of these details can be adjusted.
Like the nylon strings.
Zanskar by foot.
gathering the dust of notes unsung.