The Lodger

You could figure it as a trapdoor, blur of hinge and down into the unconscious of this stranger moving around your garden like a trap— making all the greens unstable as the warble of nausea come bang up to greet you. Bang to rights is how he'd like to have your house. Cuckoo, wool-wearing garden-dweller, new-age Salvationist, holy among your cow-parsley and roses. Meanwhile, the unaccustomed heat. Meanwhile, a sky tunnelling upward— sense of proportion—golden section of elder hedge; then the disgraceful paddock gone wild.