The View I

I am still in that loft 
A combatant of the cold
And the tinny ladder still
Exists drawing draughts
Along its axis and that
House sat squat on the
Cliff overlooking an abyss
Of blue wheeling air above
Those shores of shingled stone
And the windows are
Covered with sea spume 
White encrustations of foam
Eating into our car's rusting sills
And there you are still, real enough
But gone.

You switched your view
For a southern sea
A calm life
A designer apartment
And no responsibility.

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