Home

From where I sit,

I cannot smell the fresh sea air

Nor taste my salt encrusted lips

Or watch the swirling twisted mists

Cut through by masts of sailing ships

And headed for some outer bank to fish

From where I sit,

I cannot hear the choir of Gulls,

Who dart and shoot above my head

And screech a welcome in my ear.

“you’re home, you’re home,” they cry

“Rest well”.

From where I sit,

I cannot see the mountaintops of

Heather strewn across the rocks

Or heavy rain and waterfalls in rivers

Run beneath the bus and neon lights

From where I sit,
I cannot see my little town

- I am not there. 

bobby stevenson 2013