When I sleep,
I’m back again,
on unwieldy streets,
narrow, ancient scapes,
houses of a regal past,
friends of old and new,
where faces banter,
hands gesture,
voices litigate,
and eyes prate.
When I dream,
I’m walking again,
from the toot-toot train,
on the icy brick road,
pass heavenly brioches,
epithet-happy racists,
that yellow postbox,
outside the church,
through a golden door,
into a kind of home.
