|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 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
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,
and out again.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019
Inspiration taken from ‘One Geography of Belonging’ , by Kayleb Rae Candrilli.