This is a poem I wrote while on the way back from New Quay (English surfing town) last summer, having experienced what may well have been an epiphany. I'm not the sort to tell people what my writing 'means', so I'll merely ask that you enjoy this as a reprise from my normal writing.
The city scape, he yields to trees
And emerald fields of eulogies
For all that once was beautiful;
Concealed by steel and concrete, all that is most fruitful
That twists and grows and writhes amongst
The living earth all gnarled and worn.
Now this, so little more than a fleeting glance
Still imbues in us the great romance
Of Daffodils and Abbeys,
Long since commited to antiquity.
As prodigal as the sun,
As bountiful as anyone could ever conceive,
We're heading home, grasped in our hands a right to leave,
Albeit temporarily.
This is where man was first caste and as we shuttle forth
Penetrating deep into a heart so far from dark as to light our course
We can but know ourselves, and pretend for one another
That this is just a holiday,
Not going home to mother.
