What does the morning hold, the evening,
in some distant, foreign place?
One nameless acre no one calls home.
It could be country, coast, undisturbed
rolling hills, fields of lavender, bluebells,
and marbled streams warbling between
where woodland trees sing and sough,
and anxious starlings rush above
the sulphur rocks and stink of fox.
These aren’t of my home nor of my life,
but I’ll wring the landscape for all its worth,
for sand and seed and grain,
I’ll let that part of quiet earth know
I am back. I want to call it home.
Nesbit and Gibley 