There is a house I walk passed sometimes which I know very well. I should not know it but I do. I pass it because it is the better route, or at other times when I do not need to but want to see it, want to see into it and fill in the rooms I see only half walls of. I see the wardrobe upstairs which I know is made of cedar; the broken pane through the round window through the square window in the panel of the front door. The blinds I have pulled up and pulled down. And I see myself painting there: painting the allotments, yellow fields and swallowing wood beyond, the butterflies chasing each other over the roses as though their white petals had taken flight, my palette chasing the colour of ripening fruits, and allotmenteers their tasks. I see myself drawing the rooms: the hats on the high shelf, the crab in its last breaths brought down on the train, the spaces where light shapes make travelling pictures on the walls. The key is still up inside, on the edge.