Next Spring I shall be under tressers of a
sycamore tree, in the Alpines riding
free.
Exploring glaciers and marvelling at
volcanic stone or tossing coins
in ancient Rome.
To gaze upon old Elgin's beauty
or conducting martial duty
in dusty peninsuala towns.
Come summer, I might wander into busy
ports to board a ship taking me to calm or violent seas.
To travel across continents that chill
to the bone, or into those cities that have richly grown.
Where I go yet, I do not know.
Though I shall be leaving England
in the snow.
by S.J.H.F.
in dusty peninsuala towns’
Sometimes I like to imagine that I would have lived some time ago… and base a poem around this.
Parisian Poetry 