A ship, you say, is in the garden.
A ship. A sheep. A swallow.
Water. Land. Air.
You speak without realizing you have misspoke.
And why not water?
Nights of little sleep, the bed was a berth, the walls
a hull. The lawn an ocean. The hill a swell.
We stand by the back door so you can show me.
It’s of old, with sails. And the white heather gives
way on either side.