I have been here before or somewhere like this:
A dark cart waiting behind me, a spire,
Trees with trembling leaves
And an enormous sky, tenderly pale
Egg-shell blue, with drifts of white clouds.
So little room in this world. My life plucked
From safety, squeezed into a few centimetres
Between heaven and earth, made to share with others
Who fish, flirt, ride, stroll or merely stare
Vacantly at the grey spread of the sea.
Why could he not let me remain
As I was in his sketches,
Red-chalked, Individual, separate,
Filling the whole of space
just as I am?