— I’m not from around here — 

In my imaginary cottage in the hills
I am immune to the world’s ills,
Or so I like to think.
On evenings of freezing fog,
I throw another log on the fire
Watch closely as the flames reach higher and higher,
Take another sip of whiskey,
Pat the back of my young dog,
Who can feel the spirits in the breeze,
Pick my book up from the stone floor,
Read Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ — an epic journey:
‘Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light’.
I try to keep my goal in sight during the day, as well as in the night,
But life is hard and troublesome, and I am bothered by dreams
which tell me that all that I do, or say, or write, is vanity
and will vanish quite, but I will never cease, voluntarily.
Finally I will arrive back at my childhood,
For the child is the father of the man,
And now I will learn to know myself, for the first time.

Or, that’s the plan.

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