For
some reason I have, in my mind
Lived
there for so many years now
Amongst
all the postcard clichés
And
mirror image fields
Birds
and rivers
Small
churches within towns
Others
would only ever
Drive
through
But
to write it down
To
record this second life
That
would expose the falsehood
Remove
the curtain to show me
Sitting
at this screen
Looking
out onto the growing garden of my
Real
home
The
blue sky so bright
Flat
and unwelcoming
Keeping
my heart indoors
The
same New England sun
Shining
on the white painted houses
Across
the street here
Now
Not
too different
Maybe
the details only
The
birds
Churches
The
sorrow of the people
And
no one makes postcards of
Where
I actually
Live.