Travelling

Home again, to the quiet house.

Bemused again, by the fact of travelling,

unravelling –

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

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