Of home and old friends.

I don’t have to give voice

To what length of stay

I am home

And have turned my thoughts

From all that is guile and grotesque.

My home and my heart

Too long parted from my chest

And to claim it I take an evening stroll

Along the slopes of Asego hill

The lake landscape from these heights

Would put Van Gogh to shame


I have always dreamt in quiet moments

But with these rustling foliage and chipping birds

Thoughts slip from grasp

At the awe of such sweet music

And I am cast adrift

Upon the churning sea of oblivion

Breathe giving life to desires

How it was to be young

To believe we could do anything

Volcanoes turned to anthills beneath our feet

And we swam from island to island

In nature’s presence by the light of childhood’s faith

We were more than ourselves


Suddenly before me the most delicate of scenes

A bright winged bird perched on dark bough

Catching sight of my lingering gaze

How can it be that a bird

Be able to look at a man’s eyes

And gauge his true heart?

It fails to flee with my closer approach.

Impossible when we were little fiends

We took leave of senses

And for contest and sport

We shot at swallows with rocks absent reason

With all the ugliness in the world

Why did we have to tamper such perfection?


It turns from gaze and charges to the ethereal sky

Where clouds are coated gold by the setting sun

And I turn back to life’s loving rays.

When I see my old friend across the blue haze again

The only plot against them

Would be to have them soar

Beneath the flapping of my wings.

Simmering fish captivates the air

Good evening mama

It’s good to be home again.

Illustration Watercolour on paper ‘nightingale’ By Myself.





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