ESCAPE TO THE COUNTRY

This place would make so many people
Happy, the lack of city choke, the open
Pasture, the old ways of raising strong stock
Have been unbroken. Men still walk the crop
Alone, pacing anxiously the state of the season
In bloom length and guise, they read how long it is
To a safe fruition. Of course it’s a wonderful place
For children to grow. The delicate innards of us babies
Are clean as artificial lilies: spotless and fake.
I am contaminated by nothing except the love
Of my parents, which is not there, although
No-one says it. The house is quiet, sucked out
Of noise but for the boards we gingerly tread
To save breaking this demented peace.
They creak where our ancestors soiled the way:
Did they live like this? There are these creaks,
The flushing and filling toilet cistern, the droan
Of the fat wood pigeons and BBC Radio Four.
The farting pipes offer me more by way
Of conversation. I am heartbroken for
The laughing, shouting, clanging families
In the homes of friends, a beloved racket.
But I would never mention it. I have been
Grown used to this and take part to survive.