On winter trees loud with anthracite crows,
The ice white ripples on a cold shallow lake;
The dance of snowdrops in the cottage meadow -
Not on hipster life in Kreuzberg Berlin - the snake man
Easing dollars from slobs on Venice beach. Nor would I
Grab a mac to snap Soho in the rain, crowded pubs
Rowdy as Hell in Borough Market; punters sweating pints
on the Cam or Isis.
No, not at all; but I would rather be in rural Ireland
Far from the crowds at any time of year - snug in the
coffee shop
Rock crystals on the counter. There`s an off white sofa to
snuggle up and lounge in -
Cakes of many flavours - coffee more than creamy -
English and Irish spoken soft and loud. Or in Fermanagh
buying
Apples and veg and chatter from that farmer up the hill.-
This is the world I could live in, commemorate in black and
white,
But recall in perfect colours. Here where I am at home, loved
Respected. Not merely a pale face passed in the Underground.-
An image that fades in an instant as the travelers rush by.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
27th. 28th. February - March 4th.2025.
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