A Place In The Country

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I live in a house in the heart of a city

I always have, always will, very probably,

where acres of asphalt abound and surround me,

with neighbours in earshot and too close proximity.

(whatever I do I know they know about it,

whatever they do I just don’t really give a shit),

where the neighbourhood thug lives within spitting distance,

and his rattletrap car honks and beeps for annoyance,

where the teenagers wander at night until daylight,

and the parents don’t bother because they think that’s all right,

where bottles and pop cans and pizzas and chip wraps

are thrown on the ground by children who eat such crap,

with houses that breed mainly brat packs and slack twats.

Whoever would want to live in such a place as that?

Not me.

I want to live somewhere that’s almost unpeopled,

where the nearest they come is a distant church steeple.

I want to see only the things that are pleasant,

the trees and the moors and the deer and the pheasant.

I want to hear only the wild wind and birdsong.

I want to smell pines not the spices of Hong Kong.

I want to be able to step through the front door

And two minutes later be out of those wild moors.

I want to listen to muntjacs and night owls,

not neighbourhood parties and screeching and foul howls.

All that I want is a place in the country,

a nice little house, not too big, not too pokey,

somewhere so peaceful I can calm down and unwind,

unburden completely this bad state of mind.

No chance.

I’ll be here until I die.

I know I will, no need to lie,

no need to hide the awful truth,

I’m not a silly callow youth,

there is no need to kid myself,

I’ll put this dream back on the shelf,

but even so I’ll hope and pray

that, on some not too distant day,

milady luck might smile on me

and let me win the lottery.