We Toil The Land— NANA AMMA ADOMAA ABREFA
Cave-dweller— Allan Lake
You wonder why I live in this cave
near the overgrown ex golf course.
Sometimes I do too but if I take a train
to what I once thought was buzzing big
city centre, I soon recall and again
stall in what used to be a decorative hill.
Anyway, I’m out of winter wind,
heat of summer. I have a bed of straw
to lie on and often think it best to just lie,
the truth being something of a letdown.
No stars, no moon on the cave ceiling
unless I get creative. I have a candle
so I can set my world, my flammable
bed on fire if I take a notion.
You’re still here, holding on to me?
To me? Don’t be distressed; collapse
of civilisation was all for the best.
Allan Lake is a poet, originally from Allover, Canada, who now writes in Allover, Australia.
Coincidence. His latest collection, published by Ginninderra Press, “My Photos of Sicily”
contains no photos, only poems.
Parcham Online 
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