The Escape

I. -

For a moment, I loved my country,
and smiled as I broke
though the low roof of the city
three bus-stops from town -
smiled as I saw England. Smile
__as I see England, and
it's dark green and grey,
but it stretches and rolls
like the laziest day
in bed with a lover
when it's raining outside
and it's good
to be alive.

II. But

Nothing, ever, is straight.
This iron-scented, gilded yellow
rail-track, here, begins direct,
speeding from under my feet, at my command,
but soon makes for a break
in the hills, where the final sunlight
falls, in curls, somehow shaped
by the calls of the birds in the blues
and greys of early evening.

And breaks into shadow,
as night falls, now, and me
still travelling, away.

III. And

I'm lonely now, like stone,
with only this hard-soiled country to love;
(and only coiled lines to speak)
a chance, only too much chance, to
stare at the still ground
between and beneath my feet.

And now, though I'm still,
there's a rush all around me and
I'm stopped. But I'm only train-station stationary,
like closed down machinery in a
working refinery, making only
reflections, now.

And even then reflections of one thing,
and only one thing.

IV. So

Three bus-stops; ceaseless trains;
silent towns with different skies sing by - in repetative refrains;
I changed my name. It didn't help - it seems -
but to better let me see me - tripping past -
hardly stopping but to rearrange these painted scenes;
__(the sane must be derailed and made deranged
__to suit my eyes - my eyes, my love, the same)
I must move on; the escape must be complete:
and some-thing must be changed.