Pim Claridge

Life in the Scottish Borders, one stanza at a time

Homecoming

coming home

is gentling hills, a pencil line against the sky.
and hedges reaching out to touch your hand
as seeded grasses swing pollen in the air.

coming home

is roads that curl around a wood and wind
along a rivers edge, where deep brown pools
hide the flash and swirl of shy brown trout

coming home

is fields of molten gold where swallows skim
and small brown butterflies flutter busily
between cow parsely buttercups and corn

coming home

is cows upon a distant hill, and shifting sheep
among cloud shadows lying on the grass
and the comfort of a thrush's song at dusk

coming home

is the peace of trees, or a passing breath of wind
that drops a petal from a scented rose
to lie on stones warmed by summer's sun