Somewhere a willow tree is sleeping,
whilst I beneath it, am awaking,
but soon the willow will be weeping,
knowing that my soul is aching.
For the city will reclaim me,
in its heart so oddly angled.
Aesthetically it tried to maim me,
my inner freedom slowly strangled.
A stream has slid into an impasse,
No more is it gently flowing,
Water stemmed by reeds and grass,
I feel my mind is slowing, slowing...
The grass enfolds me, nature holds me,
beneath the willow’s sunlit dream,
I’m wishing I could longer sleep.
Like the willow; like the stream.
And somewhere there back in the city,
betwixt the blocks that hide the sun,
In starkest streets it’s not so pretty,
and work is grey and never done.
And monochrome sits in the office,
pulling light through filtering blinds,
where old files mix with prejudice,
that comes from ever-closing minds.
Grey suits and ties in ordered row;
smiles stored with papers obsolete.
In-trays the only things that grow;
darkened windows hide the stre