Daisies and cities
The daisies are up, and the wind
is around, the sea is empty
where the ferry will be, the
skies are a blue benison
on our last holiday day.
This place is all history and grass
and watching the rain fall
on Mull or Jura, the clouds
pass overhead, never stay.
I have dreamed dreams
of family and people, long gone,
in the comfy bed beneath
the gable. I walked seven miles
the other day, I am more able.
Sunny yellow faces, waving
and smiling. A man in an
orange jacket is photographing
a sheep: slick city Tiso,
fancy zoom, maybe he's
never seen one (his citroen
is very clean).
I would like to stay but
there is no work here -
from history and grass
the people were cleared.
I have heard
more cuckoos in a single
week, than in my whole life.
Back to the city. Return to strife.
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