Opus

Hiraeth

Hiraeth: a longing for a home that never was.

...

Take me home, to where I can
feel the grass under my feet,
Take me home to where mountains
meet the sea
where green smells wash against ancient rocks,
snow falls over the other edge of the world
and trees dance to the rhythm of thunderstorms.

Far away from my skin
that enfolds me inside, to shred
off my pretentious poetry and made-up lovers
that hold the edges of my neck
like a noose,
constructed in a language that was never really mine.

Take me to where I can feel
the grass under my feet,
far beyond words, where there is only music
where grey-blue skies promise of a time before time.
Take me away from colours and seasons and all
the big words that mean nothing,
Take me to the land where souls come from.

Take me home.
Take me home to silence.
Take me home to where the storm-birds sing of mother.