The houses around my garden
reflect sound, the sound
of distant traffic and trains,
the sound of aircraft overhead,
especially when they are silent themselves
and the people in them are still asleep.


They reflect light too,
moonlight, starlight and
the light of the rising sun.


Each spring the light
of the late afternoon sun
catches the window of a house
some two hundred metres away.


Deep and shining gold
the light hangs like a picture,
a perfect square of gold
on the wall opposite where I sit.


For those few minutes
my house isn’t a house anymore,
it’s part of a great stone circle.

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