Yellow House

You live in a yellow house, the walls, groynes in the North Sea; a damp wooden table, seals and gulls and salt on your blue-edged plate. You turn on the oven, cut the skins of potatoes, your small kitchen window overlooking an asylum. Guernica hangs in your sitting room, mist and fog in the street. You scale fish on rocks, throw them into a net bag. You crush garlic, wash samphire, mutter as you look for a pill, forget to turn the tap off.