Home
We all have beginnings somewhere,
a place where the soul first took root
and drew its history, fixed a compass
point, a pin in a map to mark its home.
For me it was here
where the horizon began
in a haze of mangrove trees
and broad tidal flats
and boats bellied in mud
when the sea sucked back the river
leaving its gums grinning
under a warm sun. It was here
where my ancestors landed
more than a century and a half ago.
Now manicured to prime real estate,
the tides keep to an orderly flow
within grassy banks overseen
by multi million dollar views.
The mangrove forests have gone,
the swamps sanitised to lawn.
I look across the glistening reaches
of a man made lake to where
the slow drift of sailboats scrape
the bottom of an evening sky.
All seems out of place, not home
and yet I mull as to whether
there is any other beyond this one,
beyond the little sailing boats
and the barking dog nearby.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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