Calling Home

Home

Brick of mud and clay, nor rarest ore, nor timber tall,

truth is not by these housed or buffered,

and so a home is not

an edifice.

The precipice

from which we peer is wrought

from that which we have not yet suffered,

so you leap, a hope you keep to find home when you fall.

 

Leading today,

footfall raising dust then,

though only rising till it settles,

so artful, footsteps who appear to be approaching.

Tomorrow harken we, not praising, but reproaching,

no longer clover, only nettles,

iron graced with rust when

leading away.

 

Flushing the slightest honeyed harmony from thunder,

witness when foot and dust meet mildly,

hum and pleasing cadence,

when to my fore.

Then, do no more

come my teasing maiden’s

traces in gentle step, now wildly

rushing, a tempest borne, and now we lay asunder.

 

Calling to roam,

traversing ice and sand,

scattering to the world’s very end,

where, not until you arrive will you be contented.

That which you seek, should you find there not represented,

set out again, retracing each bend,

find I awaiting and

call me your home.

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