Sometimes I dream of clouds,
Sheep that bleat and go grey in the rain,
Broken heating pipes.
Blackberry-dark fingernails,
Digging in the yard.
Oh, to have a yard.
Leathery cows with wet nostrils,
Who break the fencing every week,
And mooch down the dirt road.
I remember those immortal words:
‘Get a taste of real life’
and the way I thought of Canary Wharf
as opportunity.
Yet here I am now, in the city,
A rush of dust and carhorns, pickled businessmen.
And I can’t breathe.
Thanks for any comments :) x
2006-12-06
11:32:55
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24 answers
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asked by
lady_s_hazy
3
in
Books & Authors