It was a day when the sun rose out of the sea
washed and polished, shining gold;

a day when the pigeons, in a black and white flock,
flew out from the cliff and back again in circles
because today - surely - was the day
when that nice Mr Escher was coming
to paint their picture;

a day when the haze over the sea hid the horizon
and a fishing boat chugged slowly
across the sky;

an evening when the mountains stood out
so clear and close and sharp-focussed,
and the village halfway up luminous in the sunset,
you could have cut it up and put it in a box
for a jig-saw puzzle;

a night when the full moon hung brilliant and silver,
drawing a pathway of ripples across the sea
you could have walked on, all the way to Africa;

a night when the waves hushed on the shore
like the slow soft breath of a sleeping giant,
soothing you to sleep in the still warm air;

another ordinary, extraordinary day
in my home in the sun.