The Hinged Window in the Slant Roof

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Every June
I would stand
in the late afternoons
at my kitchen door
in St Andrews, Fife,
to lose myself
in the light
that poured through
the ceiling hatch
to make Monet
of white walls
and a tropical beach
of cheap linoleum.

The hinged window
in the slant roof
often saw me
gather my thoughts,
so here in my attic flat
I often stood,

no matter West Sands, old spires,
rain-spotted gargoyles,
the market town’s slate and thatch,
the golf courses and granite cathedral,
everywhere were lesser windows
that invited lesser light than mine,

yes, those were the times and that was
to this day the only light
I have ever walked in
as no ghost of myself.