The Lodger

You could figure it as a trap-door,

blur of hinge and

   down

into the unconscious of this stranger

moving around your own garden like a trap –

making all the greens unstable

as the warble of nausea come bang up to greet you.

Bang to rights

is how he'd like to put your house.  Cuckoo,

wool-wearing garden-dweller,

new-age Salvationist, holy among your cow-parsley

and roses.

   Meanwhile, the unaccustomed heat.

Meanwhile, a sky tunnelling upward –

sense of proportion – golden section

of elder hedge; then the disgraceful paddock gone wild.