December 17th her wish is to be free

Reading all alone at the Sam Smiths in the City

Imagines dancing the Sir Roger De Coverley

She sees the future, though far away, shall come to be

Is it hard to step from off the planned trajectory?

So from the cubes in smoke she must go well away and see

So she moves to the country

She longs for a garden and community

Simple surnames, provincial people who

Won’t talk to her judgingly

Down Kingsland Road your peers charade in bohemian bourgeois tatters

Has it struck you finally what it is that really matters?

Did you wake up Sunday head in hand held with regret?

You pledge to change your ways, come Monday you forget

Does your circle of friends feed you lines or connect your dots?

Are you searching for an escape, or a plot?

Do you want to cultivate and watch the garden grow?

Your plot is cyclical, your life is not for show

In the city the galas and face-time – didn’t you want to carve out a name?

Well that’s not what she’s after she’s young and she

Wants to run free and keep sane