An attempted poemA crazy police searchlight floods our house It infiltrates the office, kitchen, bath—at night Hitting us across the space of three gardens Undisturbed by the leave-less trees in our back yard We are wondering if the neighbour Standing still—a statue—hidden behind the light Is A psychopath A voyeur A crazy stalker A wild life enthusiast Afraid of burglary Will he … As for he is a he, towering on his backstairs, smoking, looking through binoculars … Ever ring our doorbell and solve the mystery? Do we want him to? Will the searchlight ever leave us? Give us our space back? Will I put this poem onto the office wall, for him to see with his binoculars? An ‘in-house’ Art installation Using calligraphy?