The things we do each day are real enough;
(compare our days, write poems, make book clubs)
(complain and cry when things are getting tough)
It’s all the same, minus trips to our pubs.
My inbox never before felt such love
not even when I crossed the seas back then
but life half lived up in the Cloud above
can leave you wanting for touch, not a pen.
So let the Placemaking commence right now,
before nostalgia chokes us half to death,
and make our place, as long as you allow.
Let’s go there now, close eyes and take deep breath.
My uncle says that all we think is real,
all we imagine, love and need and feel.