I see rolling hills, and roundabouts,
and fields, young and shamrock green;
I count the clouds bulging with rain,
one, two, three,
I stop when reaching thirty-three,
the number of reasonable despair,
and while the car cuts a hole
through the early Easter air,
I wait for raindrops,
but the clouds donít burst,
they only float indolently
and make the sky look less forbidden,
shrinking it down to the size of a pearl;
the freshness that coats the countryside
makes leaves and flowers swell;
nothing ever changes here,
and then we cross a canal
where I fleetingly feel
the presence of a moping youth with wild hair,
followed by the ghost of a drunken ship
thatís meant to sail away
to other seasons in hell;
as time becomes meaningless,
I start to hum a faded tune,
for what waits for me at destination
is a weekend of lush poetry,
oven-roasted leg of lamb,
gentle boredom,
and lecherous kisses from a faun
if I get luckyÖ