Home again, to the quiet house.
Bemused again, by the fact of travelling,
by the power of a decision, a map,
of roadsigns and lines
in green and blue and white
to take us from this weathered gate
(redundant chickenwire on peeling wood –
a particular knack of opening),
to that unmetalled track, between orchard and sheep field,
that tilting gangplank, that home from home,
a country’s length away.
Then moving on (or rather back),
orbiting the unseen city,
to arrive at another place, a numbered house on a named street,
its quirks yet to be discovered
(bus stop debris by the front steps –
backyard littered with hazelnuts donated by a neighbour’s generous tree).
Each destination a particular, precise point on an itinerary,
chosen from uncountably many possibilities,
joining the dots
to come back at last,
after endless, rolling miles of indistinguishable in-between,
to the beginning,
marked by a lingering absence,
to pick up the waiting threads again.
Copyright ©Fliss Watts 2014