A partially opened
window in the guesthouse
gave me a glimpse
of a hidden terrace

with its orange tree
in one corner producing
fruit to the music
of a Chinese water clock.

Three cast iron chairs
with backs woven
into copper coloured
quavers sung the chorus.

I wanted to take this song
and watch it paint everything
I had with tranquillity,
were it not for an unseen

cloud staring at me straight
in the eye, ready to release
its thunder.