Wild

To be home
with nowhere to rest my head,
how is it?

The old house has new people,

the old people have new ideas,
the old ideas have new names;
like me, and my new name.
What has really managed to change?

The splattered shades of blue array themselves;
protective clouds hiding the secrets
of County Down.
Each hill adorned with green hair
rolling into another,
and again

The first timid droplets caress my hair,
 then bathe me shamelessly
my ears fill with their cleansing symphony
my old chums, the cows
still munching around
the many holy stone vacation homes
of God


Rubbish is recycled now,
and still littered freely on the green
O my land
it is in the bones,
before the showers come, just after summer,
where the essence of Blackberries flow
in the air, from the ground
penetrating me

They grow wild
on quiet country roads
like me

I have grown very wild 

on quiet country roads, I have grown
across the world, I have gone,
to somewhere new, always moving
onwards - the vagabond
is all that is left

like a feather
long lost from a bird,

I have drifted, 

no goals, 

no more
no destination,
no lower than
a feather
Tumbling and twirling and floating from home
from this place to that
from that place to this, along…


A long way
I have come, to arrive
where I began
where everything is different,
but never stopped making sense,
and memories flood in with the scents
of the only place I've ever returned to
where part of me belongs,
in these mountains of Mourne
where was once my home
where was once my family


Home is like family
except it never dies
or away on air planes flies