Neville Rodman

So I’ll pack Conrad in my bag

Then go travelling a while

To the land of droughts and disappointments

And rain, perhaps just the talk of rain

Where every hotel bar

Mirrors the icon of the soul perception

Then when the dust of their dreams

Begins to cling to the sleeve of my consciousness

Will I travel farther North

To float weightlessly amongst towns

Crystal clear benign and cynic free

Those familiar surroundings left behind

Now realized became symbols of discontent

Strange roads are homely roads

The wistful quiet in the fading light

And the moan of the goodnight prodigal wind.

Neville Rodman