Boundaries

London holds you in its heart,
It doesn't let you escape,
If you have ever tried to leave by your own means,
Be it by foot or by pedal,
You realise this trait.

As you try to break free into wider vistas,
Long labouring hills confront you,
Travel flat, along the river
And you are confronted by the blue,
Of the sea,
Or head westerly,
To confront the prevailing wind,
Trying it's hardest to dissuade
Even the most bold,
Of London's 8 million souls.

Some might be fooled into thinking,
That the city wants us to leave,
House prices higher than those hills,
That confront us on the boundaries,
Pushing us out of our comfort zones 1&2,
Into areas so devoid of character,
That people like the wind whistle through.

Those who claim to have escaped,
Show off their space,
And their gardens with pride,
Yet normalise
A thirty five minute walk to the nearest tube station.
Like that is a sensible trade off,
For everything on offer
Things that keep us,
Nuzzled warmly in the belly of the beast,
To our lives so vibrant,
In North, South and East.

But if I did make it out to pastures greener,
Where the views are wider,
The air is cleaner,
Into a land of open spaces,
Where the only race is,
White Caucasian with the odd Asian,
Restaurant,
Is that the life I want to lead?
Or instead would I rather accept defeat?
Stuck in this cradle of life,
Maybe not of humanity itself,
But of life,
As I know it.