What my life lacks is tranquility
People writhe like maggots to the top
And sink, and seethe in obscurity
Selling their CDs; it never stops.
A brief time away is all I ask
From this relentless self-expression –
London, where the poet’s lonely mask
Hides solipsism and depression.
Here, there are no angry commuters
Only the river's rippling green thread
No violent rhymes, no computers.
It's a peaceful return; instead
My canoe drifts between the crack willows
The wind plucks at my sides and billows