Location is peace

by Christos Polydorou

​Sometimes you do not need to be a poet nor fill your post with poignancy nor urgency to divine attention when at around eleven o clock at night you sit by your bedroom window on the third floor and listen to the English rain that Shakespeare ran through to get to Anne Hathaway, that drowned out Virginia Woolf, that got Hugh Grant wet in Four Weddings And A Funeral, and think, My goodness, I finally made it back to London. Now I can finally (again) write.