Surplanting
Hidden deep in ferns,
Damp, warm scent of earth.
Tears watering their dry ground…
My heart shrank.
They were taking me away...
Again...
To...
Smoke, buildings...smells I’d never known.
I was home now,
Mothered by my native earth.
Do not let them take me,
Please…
I cry into this weeping April soil,
My tears
The children of this ancient hill.
They shout my name with urgency.
A waiting bus.
A hand upon my shoulder.
Come on, he says…
This elder whom I trusted.
Uncle, friend, paternal guide...
Betrayer!
Carried from the little bridge that marked my home…
Through the Viaduct,
The boundry of my life.
I was lost now to all,
An exile at the age of seven.
The ferns grew on in native heath,
I withered in an unknown land.
© David McLoughlin August 2010
