I dream for the silent places of truth,
the places of Wulf Young or Joseph Smith.
I miss Young’s sea breeze that bites at the tooth;
for trees that quiet the world, I wish.
I hope for voices to ebb away
and the motors o’erhead to leave this place.
I desire to keep the world at bay,
but without such truth, I have this space.
I have this rickety back patio
with a rusted brazier for a centrepiece,
the sight of industrious workers below
and a constant suburbia with its own special peace.
The noise never ends, never lulls on this hill,
but something here lies that holds my heart still.

© Blake Leitch November 3, 2016