This view is not our lives, but seen from here
we might be part of it. The niceness of
the dancing trees, the clouds, birds going by:
we search each other, trying to be so.
The brick wall keeps us apart from sunshine,
indoors is more darkness, more of the raw
than the roses, the pansies, the rainbow.
The room is filled with books of world war two.
The tv screen shows horror movies, blood,
words we said keep echoing in silence,
the photos of the loved ones cracked one day,
a dog has died here, some wounds were treated.
But outside a night-bird finds a tune now.
The sun sets with more than expected warmth,
so pink and red, more gracious than we are.
The view is of us. It’s what we saw go.