High among the pine needles
built out of spare planks and driftwood,
I lie lazily in the shade.
Its spiral ladder is rough-hewn.
Its trapdoor is held by a hinge of bent nails.
Sturdy pine trees creep up
harsh mountain rocks.
Cool breeze gently caresses the skin.
I hear the sound of the sea
lapping on rounded beach stones.
I see billowing sails
of yachts on the azure sea.
I smell the pine resin bleeding
from a cut limb.
I am ten metres up in a tree house
afloat in the sea and mountain air.
Cinavez creek, southern Turkey