Kilburn
Sometimes, I think of Kilburn;
Wrestling the wreath, of an unnamed
Tree from Ireland.
We clamour to Kilburn,
Calling to past ways, pathways,
As spirits are tap’d out and sold.
And where would you be,
Kilburn? Catching the hordes,
The Gypsies, the More o’ers
Passing their ways, their trades,
Their songs “O’er The Fields,”
Sunny, no.
Which way to Kilburn?
West, is it ? I guessed it
Would head to that part
Of the unladen bird, where
It would take us; come with us
Away-away!
Patterned, we fashioned
An emerald and I’ll ask,
That one be put in your name.
