It’s past my bedtime, the sky’s a screen and Laurence Olivier is fleeing
through a forest, dark branches clutching, clawing at him;
a gothic tale, a black and white drama.
Running onward, not towards, but away from somewhere, someone,
something, the story I haven’t seen;
before him the story still to be told.
I am at my window, the land I know is gone;
I am alone beneath the expanse of the Heaven's adventure;
I watch it, take it to my bed, trust tomorrow my country will return.
