I love the window in my little room.

You can’t come round to see it,

but I can describe it to you.

It is a tall window,

made of hardwood.

It has eight panes of glass –

I love what they do to a view.

It had curtains once

when the room was blue

Now the room is white

and I’ve hung a pale blind.

When I roll it down at night,

there is a small poem

by Bashõ printed on it

in Japanese.

That’s right, in Japanese.

I’ve no idea what it says,

but every time I look at it,

it seems to say something different.

Until a year ago my window

looked out on a long field

of trees and grass

herbs and wildflowers.

Now they have buried it

under houses and a new school.

My window does not like the view.

At night, I hear her whisper to Bashõ:

Tell me again of the leaves

and the willow tree by the river.