Story

Tired of a landscape known too well when young: The deliberate shallow hills, the boring birds Flying past rocks; tired of remembering The village children and their naughty words, He abandoned his small holding and went South, Recognised at once his wished-for lie In the inhabitants' attractive mouth, The church beside the marsh, the hot blue sky. Settled. And in this mirage lived his dreams, The friendly bully, saint, or lovely chum According to his moods. Yet he at times Would think about his village, and would wonder If the children and the rocks were still the same. But he forgot all this as he grew older.