This is a road that leads out of the mind itself.
I see a terraced street of Victorian cottages
in a city by the sea. The sky is ageless blue
but at night I draw a quilt of stars over me.
A corner store sells a vegetable that is round
to hold, and a fruit that tastes of yellow.
The road is littered with the skin of knees, spent
plasters and tears running home at lunchtime.
An ice-cream van churns out tin music that makes
the cats scratch their ears. The deadpan stare
of the Methodist Church casts a shadow
all the way to where the road runs out.
Somewhere in the distance, there’s me,
in shorts, on a pavement directing the sun
to burn ants through a magnifying glass.
They can remain in the light forever –
but I can never return to this place; only
on the printed page and the gaps between words.