On the Hill
No-one has seen me outside the bungalow.
I am a rumour behind windows that reflect
the sky and reveal nothing of an indoor life.
I could pretend there is an extensive lawn
in front of me, leading down a gentle slope
to a pleached hedge of hazel and hawthorn.
You might be intrigued by that birch copse
on the field’s far side, where a path runs
from the manor church back to the village.
Whether it is a chair or a bed does not matter.
A nurse will arrive to attend to me quite soon.
I will have watched her striding up the hill.
Families walking to church on winter days
wear hats and scarves with misted breath.
Even if I tried, they would not see me waving.
Oliver Comins’ poetry is collected in pamphlets by The Mandeville Press and Templar Poetry, in Anvil Press New Poets Two (ed. Carol Ann Duffy) and in a full collection (Oak Fish Island) also from Templar.