Like in my head the winter wind carries me along riversides
and across bridges and lifts me up, in-between the tall shiny buildings of the
City and I can almost touch them, and what’s left of good-Bye’s summons elusive
ghosts on the icy streets, and bills and books and papers turn into trees and
tombstones and a hill looking down on a Dear Green Place; in this same way,
symphonies from the North fill rooms with warmth and tea-time treats for travel
companions; and blue maps of far-away islands on a scaredy child’s bedroom wall
make space for grown-up plans, and fluffy cakes; and quiet nights in this
country, and another, let the sunrise in and salute it with hearty crêpes and
cream and fruit for breakfast.
If I wake up one day and will have desisted living by dreams
and day-dreams and songs and stories, I’ll give myself a slap on the wrist, and
I would be crazy not to; and as for this town of smoke and trouble – I’m
already there; and the most delicious marshmallowy treats is what I’ll give,
this time, in return for so much.
