David Ball
An Ecological Sonnet
Two homes I have, of comfort both and
culpability. Both taxed and well maintained,
when one is full, or relatively full, the
other’s locked and empty, the country one,
although the neighbour’s daughter has a key
and once a fortnight comes and cleans.
Very rarely both are full, of us and friends.
The country one, a mouse, open to the fields,
to wood smoke and the east wind, contrasts
with the apartment town centre, whose windows
stretch upward to invite the sun. Its walls,
our gilded monument, which have already
outlived princes by over two hundred years,
no plaque will adorn that here I wrote this poem.
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