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.