writing poetry

when i was broke in london
see, they return
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
the pale day drowses on the western steep
you say you love me
perhaps
often is it not so?
passing through huddled and ugly walls
are you awake?
they may talk of love in a cottage
do the boys and girls still go
up from the meadows rich with corn
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
see i give myself to you