I have travelled a long way from my origins
Is there anything left of the child
with the wheaten hair who listened for owls
loved poetry and winter fires remembered
the strange moment in the dark fields
when the pet lambs grown into ewes and wethers
trotted along the fence lines bleating to be let in?
You can never go back only onwards
into the world leaving behind
all the loved things the grandfather
flying on his winged nag through the frosty paddocks
the handsome father haloed in sparks
roasting spuds in the ashes of the playroom fire.
Where do you go from there concealed in darkness
glowing in the heat in the grass the hawk in the wood
the plovers spinning of spring in front of the plough—
to the old woman watching for her bulbs to come up
the irises lining the path the white cockatoos
in a flurry of wings a visitation of angels.