I saw an old farmhouse

It reminded me more of a home than just a house

I pictured myself living there

I pictured having the windows shut and the curtains drawn closed

I imagined silence

Behind this house there was a big mountain

Snow white clouds spilling over the peak like pouring milk

There was that silent sound again

Back inside I pictured an old black bakelite telephone in the passage

Only I knew the number

I could phone out

But there would be no incoming calls

I've chosen it this way

The kitchen is cozy and modest

A *** plant in the windowsill

The television and radio have been stacked inside the ceiling

They have become dust collectors

The only sound is the ticking of the clock

It doesn't matter if it runs down

Time is not important here

Not in this space

I eat  

I think

I go for a walk

I return

I drink a cup of tea

It's late afternoon and the sun wants to retire

I read

I think some more

I turn out the light

I go to sleep and forget