1.
Four walls, one door, keep me from the storm.
I breathe a sigh and turn the key. Home
is a name, a centre, a refuge but now the road
running past, has called me out. On a spin
of fortune’s wheel, the compass points.

2.
South, through the back garden gate.
Woodland parasoles the place and there
a migrant cuckoo roosts, desert secrets sealed
in the dust of grey wings. How pallid my skin,
itching to sweat in some such bone-dry heat.

3.
Eastwards, the earth spreads. Flat and forlorn
trudging field to the measureless marsh. Last
calls of lost souls heard in the Curlew cries,
shrill as the wind. Willow whips the face
of wanderers, like me, forsaking company.

4
Northern byways with travellers. Behind
a caravan’s canvas door watching winter lanes
slip past. Kettles, pans and dry sticks jangle
to a slow pony trot. I’m eager for evening
a brew and burnished faces in owl light

5.
Walking West to a rise of yellow hills.
Facing each new sun square on, joyful
as a vaulted lark. Breeze blown in buttercups
and clocks of dandelion, I count back through all
these wanderings. Still conjuring home.