In the morning the swifts scream and on the tracks
the trains howl, voicing my restlessness,
as I lie in bed dreaming of my dusty rucksack.
‘Having displeased my father, there to confess,’
I’ll walk to a mountain, a small town, a bridge
over a dried-out river-bed, anywhere, life a plastic distress
Blown in the wind, shredded on wires and on small trees.
There is no yoghurt, no fruit in the fridge,
so I walk to the net bar and sit mute reading.
