The Man

--Maitreyabandhu

The man was sitting by the kitchen window.

Outside, the trees were full of nervous birds,

nodding their heads or flicking up their tails

in gestures of defiance. A pheasant walked

along a hedge, his copper coat restrained,

even the sun held back behind the trees.

The man was watching ladybirds climb up

the windowpane: so many on the walls,

so many huddled near the lights! They fell

down on their backs as if they'd taken ether.

The house stood in the corner of a field

with woodpigeons, always woodpigeons, in twos

or squadrons in the trees; and a robin singing

from a post, his song as bright as teaspoons.

The sun rose in pale and broken stripes,

then set in a perfect orange ball. Nothing

happened inside the house. The man took off

his glasses when he slept, drank two strong cups

of coffee every day, and walked around

the garden with his scarf around his neck.

He wanted signs of life: the sound of someone

closing a drawer or slipping on a jacket;

but no-one pressed the gravel drive or opened

the kitchen door. A patch of sunlight swivelled

round the room, brightening the kettle's spout.

The man lay down and wrote inspiring things

on little scraps of card. He thought he heard

a hare snuffling in the grass, an owl

hooting in the night. But then the taps

ran dry and the blue pilot light went out.