Instead of people
I chose the trees and the bushes,
the silence before dawn,
when people are asleep,
doing the least harm.
Their cars just take up space then,
above the grey of the roads —
no stench, no traffic, no filth.
The shops are closed,
no lies, no showing off,
even their social status is dormant,
Except for the drunks —
the taxi drivers haul them around
like living cargo,
one after another, like dead meat.
I stay away from them, from the media, from the news.
Nothing from their world interests me.
I just run.
The foxes are my friends,
from the dark riverbank,
listening to the Mersey’s song.
The joy of solitude,
clean air and silence —
like a hushed corner in hell,
a balm for wounds.
I fold the Moon onto my face.
