The Vanishing Future
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.