Tired of a landscape known too well when young: <br />The deliberate shallow hills, the boring birds <br />Flying past rocks; tired of remembering <br />The village children and their naughty words, <br />He abandoned his small holding and went South, <br />Recognised at once his wished-for lie <br />In the inhabitants' attractive mouth, <br />The church beside the marsh, the hot blue sky. <br /> <br />Settled. And in this mirage lived his dreams, <br />The friendly bully, saint, or lovely chum <br />According to his moods. Yet he at times <br />Would think about his village, and would wonder <br />If the children and the rocks were still the same. <br /> <br />But he forgot all this as he grew older.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/story/
