Escapist

I wish I was back in my native land
(though nobody knows me any more),
where bladderwrack's strewn upon the sand,
where choughs and wheeling seagulls cry,
and there's crash of waves and salty tang,
and the whitewashed houses proudly stand,
and night-time lights of bronze and silver
jewel-like strung from pole to pole
all around the sweep of the bay,
and all our children dance for joy
upon the shingle and the shore.

The land of fuchsia, ilex, palm,
where we jolt in draughty train or tram
past concrete shell of Summerland,
heather and headland, scented gorse,
screech along the curving line
past woods and mansions, rocks and sea,
Onchan, Lonan and Baldrine.

But here the roads are hard and land
is flat and dry and vandals wreck
and all is vulgar, commonplace.
Forgive me, friend, if I am drunk.