The Geography of Myself

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

Myself has migrated,
leaving hints of itself,
in old towns and locations,
where it used to be.

In the dirt floor of a sandstone cave,
in the soil of a grandfather’s vegetable garden,
in the cracks of a concrete driveway,
in the drains of a tarmacked road,
and in the corners of an abandoned removal van,
in Shropshire.

In the anchor ropes of docklands,
in the pebbles of beaches,
in the bread swept up by a seagull’s cry,
in the tread of a fisherman’s boots,
in the echoes of a preacher’s rant,
in every town,
all round the coast
of Britain

is a hint of myself.

Now, myself settles awhile,
in the red bricks of suburbia,
in the river banks of the Stour,
in the squelch of a water-logged meadow,
in the fabric of purple chair,
in Suffolk.

Myself migrates
into myself
and out again.

Restless.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019


Inspiration taken from ‘One Geography of Belonging’ , by Kayleb Rae Candrilli.

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