Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Going Home

What is it to see the soil of home again? A welcome, snow-struck and a return To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn. We converse in broken tongues to men We know, hooked on holiday language Comprised of wandering hand signs. Collect the car and pay parking fines, Drive through towns and over a bridge Until we reach the Western gateway. Oh when will we arrive at our house? No camels there, only field mouse Which are eaten by our cat anyway. The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning Through the stretching, pealing sky, A knife through air; what it is to fly. Our travels over; a new day is dawning.