Bank Holiday
The wind rustles through the roadside bushes
The spicy scent of the field tickles my nostrils
As far as the eye can see, there is greenery,
low hills, narrow roads,
with cars crawl along, going about their business.
I don't understand where the wind comes from
on such a calm day as today.
I look back at your house
It's exactly the same as in the photograph
Taken years ago, only the ivy
Has perhaps grown too much
on the panel next to the window facing the road.
I feel as if I'm inside that old photograph
Where AI imitates the moving
And the foreground suddenly recedes into the distance
The field and hills disappear beyond the horizon.
Cawing crows fly by
The day draws to a close, the light changes
And slowly fades, like in a theatre
But the curtain hangs motionless
No public enters inside
Today is a bank holiday.
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