Thirty years in town.

Thirty years of urban life

And still the fields they call,

The wild woods they pull,

The salt marshes send forth their feelers

And fill my heart with an anonymous ache.

Why can’t I let them go.



Or do their pagan gods still cling,

Put out their invisible threads,

Hold me with a grinning satisfaction

In their primeval power.

Oh, let me cut the threads.


But no, I would not cut those threads,

Destroy the unforgotten,

Anaesthetise the ache.

The tremulous spirit needs to stir

To far off music.

I will not close my ears.