When fog comes into the sheep barn

England whispers in my ear there is no rain.

There are just the sun’s tears, like spindrifts over the umbrellas.

The city is at my feet all day long, and I watch folk through the window.

It is just fast walkers when sky is falling down,

It is just dancers in the rain each time they want to forget that there is no lullaby by night,

When they come back home,

When they wear their worn dreams.

Sometimes, sunlight appears and it is like a party in their minds. There is nothing but their

arms circling life, circling the whole day, circling their youth as if it were their last present.

I guess I love this clear white crowded light.

There is a sound in that country, a whistle, which tells me that it’s not an island’s lyrics but that everything abroad is a kind of Island whose lies nobody here can understand.

I lay down on my bed, I’m surprised to think as they do.

Maybe I’ll have spindrifts over my umbrella.

Birmingham, 17/10/2007