Come December I will travel
To a bucolic and shy place.
Amongst leisure and peer babel,
Oblivion will waltz with grace.
It will inform time in great haste
And leave my chestnut hair windswept
By train hum, street lamps, and the taste
Of wine brick held up by neglect.
These moments will soon carry dust,
Tucked away in a box for years,
Until my kids smell attic musk
Asking, "Mom, is Harlow near here?"