I’m resorting to poetry (of a sort) to help me figure out my feelings on having returned to England after many years away. This was the result.
Breathing soup-thick air beneath the nearly-always grey English sky, my life has reached a new sea-level low, a damp depression I can’t rise above. Remembering the fierce cold bite of Swiss mountain air in winter sun, I regret my voluntary loss of altitude and ache for my spirit to soar. Until, breathe stolen by a gale, facing into the storm-whipped sea pounding the seawall beneath me, I hear the heartbeat of home.
©mike finn 2020