Roots

I am rooted in the earth there

growing from the soil.

It’s in my blood

my roots are there

and do not move,

while my heart and mind

wanders from beach to cliff,

craving salt water

wherever I go.

Postcards from Home

The Freshwater co-op car park

is a long way from home.

Everything is these days –

home is a distant thing,

a concept I can’t wrap

my head round, no matter how hard I try.

 

Every rolling field, combine rumbling

by, every hay bale and tractor

every pebble on the beach

is a postcard from home

that I can’t ignore.

 

An old tattered paperback,

words jumping off the page

familiar characters and faces on the screen

are like a blanket wrapping

themselves around me, linking me

back to home, an unwritten

postcard that doesn’t need

to be spoken aloud.

PILGRIMS

They returned to the site,
still the same after all these years.
No one else would know they were pilgrims
for they wore tatty shorts and t-shirts, clutched
backpacks and sun hats,
and looked like any other tourist
that passed through. But for them
it was something else – this pilgrimage
that they had made, back, into the past,
a time that had long passed
even if the place still remained
seemingly untouched.

Homesickness

We’re homesick you see,
not to go home, not now,
but for a time
that doesn’t exist anymore
that we can’t go back to
except in our dreams
which take us far away
on a roller coaster into the past.
we cling on like limpets
on a sinking ship, we spin
in circles
getting
nowhere
and feeling nothing
only
despair
dragging us further away
and all I really want,
you see, is to go home,
but it’s not there anymore.