Back In Blighty

Three long, miserable months of seasickness,
broken ribs from the last Town skirmish,
and sleeping upon rocking, hardwood floors…
I tell thee, I was more than ready
for a little bit of warmth and homely comfort.
Feet, finally dropping down, wearily,
into British sand is like being born again.
As the dunes stretched forward into meadow,
my stagger quickly became a contented stride.
I breathed deeply, and swore out loud that I’d never
take these oaken woods for granted ever again.
At the bottom turnstile, someone smiled “Hiya”
instead of a-grimacing and a-growling,
the unfamiliarity hit my senses like a battle hammer.
As I reached the Village Green,
I saw children skipping, and spinning hoops,
instead of screaming and running for cover.
But, it was taking the top lane bend,
that my head and heart once more burst alive…
for there YOU stood, in our quaint, little garden,
pegging laundry upon our washing line, whilst singing.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.