Running through the trees,
Flying fast as birds,
I am my father\'s child,
A stag grazing, treading cautiously across the ground.
My antlers grow through my fists,
I look to the Sun whenever I feel mad, and just breathe.
Home is the rolling hills of the cold, wet North,
Filled with the scent of pollen carried from the Yorkshire Moors.
The grass beneath my feet brushes against the skin,
A reminder of the roots I\'m leaving behind.
Running through the trees,
My hair flowing in the wind like a cavalry flag
With a heart of marbled stone,
I\'m home.