The building’s ungainly.
Glassed-in balconies bulge
from dirt-coloured walls.
Not tall, not squat,
it neither looms nor crouches.
It stands, seven levels,
behind its frizzy hedge,
its toothy gate. But I
don’t have to judge it
as I go along the path.
I live within, in the space
behind the windows
where breezes twirl through
and sunlight tangoes in.
First published in LiNQ 42, January 2017
From The emptied bridge
Jackson 