The cars are sparse on the roads, duly recalled
from long past weekends; maybe it's just the roads -
marked in yellow and white, become smart and broad
with added swoops of new flyovers, malls new and old.
retrace journeys, the same roads, the same gateways
but shut fast now, like the past, a shuttered, closed sea;
off licence across morphed to more family
stores. Sure, there is no going away
neither a return. The breeze stirs the dark in trees
we walk on, the fingertips of our thoughts
brushing against each other. You may not
walk the same island twice,
cross the same river valleys.
There is no homecoming, wherever you retrace
routes, return rivers, islands. Home is not a place.