Sunday morning, and you dawn
After too much Chianti you wake up late
To a crush of voluptuous birdsong
And the violent light of city daybreak.
The languid bourgeoisie are still loafing
Smugly over orange juice and ‘Daily Mails’
Your eyes sting, face smeared with mascara
The face in the mirror blotched and pale.
A flood of images; Saturday night
Your thoughts drop like pebbles into water
Each with a splash of avowed escape
The ravenous dreams of an only daughter.
Your iPod opens a drowsy subtext
Of other lives and Sunday stirrings
The bathos of the loved and lost
You doss around for hours, long past caring.
If I could show your future now I would
The claustrophobic web of vague deceits
And the little spurts of assertiveness
Before your sullen, brooding late retreats.
I would find a city to free your soul
Then pack your bags and check the times
I would book your wing and say a prayer
And find you space to say your last goodbyes.
Platform 8 for Camden or Bloomsbury?
With your books, your secret looks and violin
All packed and ready for a long sojourn
To save your dreams; but how could I begin?