because I see this view
I catalogue it as mine
because I am alone
no-one else can see
the sky at dusk
dusted pink
the soft vermillion
of the faded corrugated iron roof
below the blank peach
of the terraced walls
slabs of muted colour
the great chunks of paint
punctuated by the window
otherwise ignored
the flat canvas
smeared with paint
what the view became
or always was
I watch the window
as dust settles
on the surface of the glass
of water set on the table
near the window
why the taut surface
trembles with fear
from the hand which set it there