"My yellow wood?"

My window, in the house where I have been living for the past eleven months, looks across to a much larger house full of retired missionary priests. Sitting at my desk every day, I see the same navy jumper and head of a man, aged, balding and wearing glasses, moving about in the most southerly room, opening the curtains, closing the curtains, sitting down, pacing slowly, presumably as he reads, thinks or prays.