GREEN LANE
One man dreams of the Anzio Beachhead, another
rolls over in his sleep. The drumming noise in the air
comes from something - birds, drums, a woodpecker's
dull head. Green Lane is where I live : everything here
comes in two's. Why I'm not there right now is beyond me.
Distant is but a joke - so many ways of looking at things,
like Stevens and that blackbird again.
No comments:
Post a Comment