They Call it a Cottage / Thanks Huge garden / room for 20 tents a green‐glassed greenhouse choked with sour grape vines and a glimpsed cat that scampers like I was Jack the Ripper. Dusk bats and swallows crick my neck. My eyes ignore the purple painted walls / try to Sky / red night and tomorrow will be fine ‐ but, let's face it, giving up is easy.