On the Continent

 

There is, it turns out, a Europe of the mind

Where all the memories from all your visits go

To drink their cappuccinos in the shade

Of German French Italian Spanish trees,

 

And to recline, half-drunk, below the winking stars

Of Paris, and Milan, and even Bruges,

Sun-sated, having seen their fill

Of bikes, cathedrals, and big-bellied men,

 

Content to dream their European dreams 

That harken back and back, down endless years –

Because everything has happened a million times here,

And will probably happen again,

 

And it was no great bother, then or now;

Nothing to miss a cigarette for;

Nothing worth giving up the splashing of the fountain,

The ankle of a girl, or the swaddling night.