Coming Home Again

Hall's Gate


A rubber tack that won't drive home - this thought
Of faces, smells and weather wrought
From ash of once-upon-a-time.
The fissured lane beneath my tread spills stones that roll away
Until they are impossible to find
Like half-remembered nights;
Or colour palettes for the blind.
A house-dog's yelp: the fox who
Wails for loss of love, or cub, or carrion
In the ditches of my dreams
And what we were is a tale told by others
Until the words come apart at the seams.
Soft afterthoughts of myrtle on a breeze
Tempered with manure and bacon grease
And I am home.
The boy I was strapped to my back;
the man I am - stripped to the bone.