By Marina McCuaig
Round the gable to the byre hunting for eggs, peat stack and back.
Busily doing important things, this was my usual tack.
My daily play and toil performed behind these fortress walls.
And all the while the smell and sound of the Atlantic calls.
A constant I neither noticed or could ever explain.
Gentle lapping to roaring and rushing, my circadian strain.
These were the confines and this was my whole world.
And I had no need or slightest desire to fathom beyond or unfurl
Eager to spread my wings and migrate as the Arctic Tern.
I anticipated a life outside my island ahead of the ferry stern.
Outward bound and heading for adventures of life.
Dreams and endless possibilities in my head are rife.
Lists of must do’s wants and fantasies bright as the sun.
Hope expectation and imagined experience like a tidal run.
On my way to adventures new, I could only imagine the prize in.
No fixed limit, no end in sight, only the eternal horizon.
In the beginning it was all vibrant, exciting and new.
Delight abound in novel experience, grasped opportunities and debut.
But unrelenting city bounds offer no softness nor solace.
In the constance and furor of a quickly familiar rat race.
Compact and grey, dirty, dreary pavements under foot.
Tarnished Silver, straight lined district of smog and soot.
One street like another I longed to be free and wander alone.
To draw in untainted air and live with a different tone.
Older and thoughtful, now I return to the fold.
Safe and secure in the warmth of my flock, come back from the cold.
Inhaling and gulping the briny air from my own front door.
I am comforted by the moat, as far as I can see from the shore.
Familiar outlines of land, sea and daily routine.
And happy memories of the different life I’ve seen.
Yellow pink skies, birdsong and whispering waves of dawn.
Contentment in my soul and my story carries on.