My little place has urban privacy.
For nearly 15 years it’s been my home.
It’s hidden in a garden few will see,
behind a big brown-shingled boxy house
that one-time housed a single family,
but now comprises 4 one-bedroom flats.
Of late the residents in front of me
are home-improving, triggering this poem –
Their power tools corrupt serenity.

(Magic 9)