«A real bungalow is stone
and snow white mud
on the inner walls,
a large grate
and a slate floor
and a picture of itself.

Every cupboard is old,
every glass and cup
wiped clean.
The wind cannot get in
so the flies are free
to buzz against the glass.

Outside, blue twine
is tied to a telephone pole
and a gate
to keep the brown cows
in their field.

Fuchsia hedges, clover
in full juice:
purple clover, purple heather.

There’s a silver line
on the sea between
green sheer islands:
Now the sound of the wind
playing a foghorn,
enters forgotten.»

[poema de Fanny Howe, publicado no número Especial de Ficção (106), da revista Granta]