Home has lingering whispers
from familiar intimate shadows
that know my very name.

At home porcelain teacups remember
my waiting lips and walls
absorb my steady rhythmic echoes.

Yet something pulls at the seams
of my steady homely self to take
me away from this sense of place.

The horizon’s blue invitation
extends to me with a trembling
hand that wants my uncertain grasp.

Airports buzz as gateways to possibility,
with each departure a wound and
each arrival a chance at rebirth.

The exotic fruits of unfamiliar markets are
bitter-sweet on my transformed tongue
and my passport becomes a chrysalis.

I create fitful versions of myself
fractured across time zones and currencies,
collecting both wonder and longing.

But still the unrelenting magnet-pull of home,
this constant north in my compass,
becomes the tugging invisible umbilical.

Between long flight and nest I stretch
suspended in this beautiful tension
like a migratory bird going and returning.

 

14/4/2025