I Once Lived By Myself in a Tree-house

I once lived by myself in a tree-house near a tunnel.
I wove my nest in red and yellow
and lined it with patchwork squares.

Everything was tiny: the teapot, the stove, my spoons,
the corners of used envelopes
I composed notes on for the morning.

Perched above a bus stop, the windows rattled
with the idling number 12.
Engine crescendos threaded through my dreams.

Eventually I sellotaped a cut-out heart to my spare key
and gave it to you.
You kept it in the coin-part of your wallet
and knocked each night on my tiny front door.