Hollow my high tower leans
Back to the cliff; my thatch
Converses with the spread sky,
Heronries. The grey wall
Slices downward and meets
A sliding flooded stream
Pebble-banked, small diving
Birds. Downstairs my cellars plumb.
Behind me shifting oblique veins
Of the hill; my kitchen is damp,
Spiders shaded under brown vats.
I hear the stream change pace, glance from the stove
To see the punt is now floating freely
Bobs square-ended, the rope dead-level.
Opening the kitchen door
The quarry brambles miss my hair
Sprung so high their fruit wastes.
And up the tall stairs my bed is made
Even with a sycamore root
At my small window.
All night I lie sheeted, my broom chases down treads
Delighted spirals of dust: the yellow duster glides
Over shelves, around knobs: bristle stroking flagstone
Dancing with the spiders around the kitchen in the dark
While cats climb the tower and the river fills
A spoonful of light on the cellar walls below.