Then, for all I knew, feng shui
might have gone well with noodles.
Our room faced north. I couldn’t
see the door. At night, thick curtains
kept a flickering road at bay. Shut out
The Plough. I was water to your fire.
By day a telegraph pole, close to the house,
shot poison chi across the big sash window.

I moved south — across the landing. Now
on windy nights as I watch the birch tree
toss its glittering fleece, the energy’s
in free flow. In the distant hills perhaps
a dragon sleeps, while open blinds invite
auspicious stars to spell a future where
alone’s not lonely. A thrush calls from the ash.
It is the single birds who sing the most.