This Town, This Time

In this time , this town, you'd grow In this town, this time, you'll feel at home your poor plenty more than rich enough to crack the faultline, your cup half full, half overflowing. You stretch your legs and wings and mind and laugh Find friends too easily, and hand frayed throw cushions to basement strangers. But is it your life? Tomorrow you'll return to the terraced houseboat, to the gulls and the buoys and there's a fresh breeze blowing through fused stamens along the towpath, coaxing brilliant notes from your empty letter box and spinning ancient coins under a tear-shaped moon. The chimes are natural now not flat, not sharp, not late, not ringing through your dreams like an ice-cream hearse. He'll phone you at the weekend She'll pop by with that book, that child, that unfinished thought. And you'll drink methode champenoise straight from the bottle Like winning at Monaco or from your shoe, and chase your other lover upstairs. Now write a letter to yourself and copy it to the moon. Take the ferry to the island and drive back across the broad causeway. In this time , this town, you grow In this town, this time, you feel at home