It is the real green and pleasant land:
The lush, dramatic result of
All that rain, soaking through
Stolen earth to reach
The dark rock beneath.

That day, it was an estuary
And a world away. The future
Remained an undiscovered country.

If I return, will the sand be
So inviting when I am not looking
For somewhere, anywhere, to be?
Or will it be somewhere I can
Enjoy rather than read
As metaphor?

Cold, hard logic kept me headlong
On the path I was still travelling,
Just as it had half a lifetime ago.
This time, the choice was real,
And I still failed to take it.

Instead, I distracted myself with
Could have beens that could not have been:
Friday night dashes north, not south;
Weekends on the border but not
In the borderlands, the sadness
Of Sundays as days of parting
Before that was my life.

Homing, I reclaimed a city,
Not realising I was sacrificing it
On a different altar. Someday,
I must meet it in pleasure
Rather than obligation.

That windswept promenade will
Always be a good place though:
It felt my first footsteps along
The way to a better life.

04/10/2018

Posted on 04/13/2018
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