Home

Standing, one foot in an ancient track

He looks across the wide vista

A cigarette almost burnt to the stub forgotten between his fingers

A small twinge in his knee briefly distracting him.

How long has he looked out over the landscape down through the years…

Hours…

Days…

Weeks spent looking at the rolling hills, a view he never, ever tires off.

His heart beats slowly within his chest

His lungs fill rhythmically with clear air

He knows that if he was die right there, right now

He couldn’t think of a better place.

But the shit he would leave behind, the sorrow and the tears

Time again for to drag his soul from his home.

 .

He was born so far away in one of Man’s scars upon the landscape

He looks at the landscape he loves so much, realising even here there are scars

The ancient land would have been a sea of trees

Only mountains and lakes and bogs piercing the wild canopy

The shades of green a soft wound by Man

Unlike the tarmac gashes and the constructed caves

 .

To be the only man on earth, at least for an instant

The animals, the birds no longer having to compete with the ‘infernal’ combustion engine

The world changing to its own beat

Flowing with the seasons

Exploding in the spring

Settling down in the autumn

Born once again, each and every year.

He thinks back a “lock o’ years”

What made him return to the place he never came from…

To the place he never left…

The love of a girl

Or the love of a Land

What would he be if he had gained both…

He knows he wouldn’t be him

And that may not have been such a bad thing

He has done good things

He has done bad things

And although he has given up on the divine

If there is an accountant at the end of days…

Maybe…

Just maybe he’d be in the black

Those greens, that horizon, those mountains

Drag his soul home once again

The hundreds of hills

The thousands of fields

The tens of thousands of trees

The scars of man cannot undo the harmony inside him

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder…?

No, beauty is in the soul of the beheld

Be it a blade of grass

A lowing cow

 A swaying Ash

A flowing stream

A buzzard hovering

The clouds unfurling

Or a girl laughing leant upon on a bicycle

“If you’re up there, let me die here on this hill…

….but maybe not today…”

.

FtF

~ by ftfagos on April 22, 2011.

2 Responses to “Home”

  1. I think this might just be the most peaceful, and calming peice of work I have ever read from you. Oh yes, and accepting.

    I do love that line “Beauty is in the soul of the beheld”, it s so true. Thank-you for this little ditty.

  2. […] Home is where the heart, body and soul belongs… […]

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