There is a place which I encounter in my dreams;

I never come across it in real life.

A port on a river, a Sunday afternoon,

Some families buy lemonade. Just then,

Without quite knowing why, everyone is afraid.

Darkness falls, while debts are quietly paid.

 

At other times, the riverboats sail up and down.

The air is tense and tight. The parasols

Seem to frown. Old men wilt in walks along the front.

There is no beach. Experience shows up

The naïve nature of our visits, the pretence

Of certainty, the curse of reverence.

 

I seem to remember, yes, there’s a barber's shop,

So waiting passengers can get a shave,

And tables where the courting couples may mark time.

In their appointment with this day, all know

That dreams are performed while we stand on feet of clay.

Soon the scenery will be stacked away.