Native born
to a fine land
but taken.
To grew and talk
with accent
of afar.
Returning, now
regarded as
foreigner, Englander,
history's enemy.
Unable to retreat,
drawn, ever mindful
to the beauty within
the rugged courage
of hill, loch and glen.
My native Scotia.
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Author:
dusk arising (
Offline) - Published: March 7th, 2021 00:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 42
Offline)
Comments6
Wonderful conceit here... I was taken from the state of Indiana as a small child and raised as a Texan, so I too am a foreigner in my home state. The incredible green rugged woods, isolated small towns, narrow winding roads, covered bridges and lush cornfields and wild streams of southern Indiana always seem like a home I was denied but delight to rediscover as an adult. Thanks for sparking my own little reverie of going back.
Very good write d a, now living in the Midlands but still occasionally being asked if I was a cockney having come from Medway in Kent.
Andy
Good write dusk.
Good, write Dusk. There is some link to you and where you were born.
The last time I visited my birth country I felt like a foreigner. Your poem reminded me of that.
Can a person ever, truly go home. We are a product not of our birth, but of our life experiences. A warm place in one's heart? Yes. But always altered by time spent elsewhere. - Phil a.
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