Feels Like Summer

I come home in the summertime.

When the swallows take flight

and the tree frogs breathe song

and I gasp pollen and feed dust as I run.

I can only take solace in the discomfort of the sun.

With a first burn peeling

and itching legs

and each day a step closer to tone;

I am only home when there is always work to do.

When my soul can be tied by the bleating of sheep and the

ever-upward march of the grass,

with tangles of fescues and vetch to secure my feet.

Frost will cut them down

and cut me free,

but even now I long for that hopeful melancholy of spring.

I am not home here.

I am passing through on my return to the stifling comfort

of loose cows and broken tractors.

No matter how familiar I become

with racing cars and crowded pubs,

I will stay a stranger until May.