This morning I’ve been looking once again
At pictures that I took in fair July
Of Scarborough beach, Ireland’s greenery,
And Devil’s Bridge, mid-Wales, by steam train.
I wonder, is it wrong to run away
From home, and work, and their long dreariness?
Perhaps, instead, if I could just address
My problems, then I wouldn’t have to say,
How long till, and can I afford, this break?
Something must break: the habit of a life
Almost spent, entirely within my mind.
Now I must board my boat and cross a lake
That deadly fish inhabit. I will cry
For help. In Ireland, England, most are kind.
Sat 16 Sep 2006
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