Urban

The hills are always far away. He knows the broken roads, and moves In circles tracked within his head. Before he wakes and has his say, The river which he claims he loves Is dry, and all the winds lie dead. At dawn he never sees the skies Which, silently, are born again. Nor feels the shadows of the night Recline their fingers on his eyes. He welcomes neither sun nor rain. His landscape has no depth or height. The city like a passion burns. He dreams of morning walks, alone, And floating on a wave of sand. But still his mind its traffic turns Away from beach and tree and stone To kindred clamour close at hand.