You stride back home. The grass is green. And soaking wet,
horses dotted on it. The smells of manure and sweat
rise in the air. The melee of muddy football,
rough, closer to the ground. Not the time for cricket.
The dog decides to pee against a vendor’s cart
the owner’s embarrassed, but you are, for your part
surprised there are vendors this early. Free for all
to the west – more than just your world’s fallen apart.
The sun’s veiled, but eye to eye with The Forty Two,
twenty years have come to a head – for them, for you,
two long decades of a low boiling, hard conflict
and neither they nor you alone know what to do.
Home’s not the rain, a field, a game, the land of birth,
- it’s where your heart finds its place and peace on earth.