The Nomad


Always in my mind the landscape of Waterford
Awaits beyond the boundaries of foreign towns.
On childhood nights I swore one day to explore
High into the wilds of the Knockmealdowns,
To see Dungarvan, Passage East and Tramore:
Places sounding distant and impossibly strange.

No encounter has quenched the sense of wonder
That fuelled this life of hostels and train stations,
A life spent seeking a home, yet needing to wander,
Never able to settle on one job, one lover, one abode,
Imagining that beyond the next set of mountains,
The next city block, I’ll discover a narrow road

Beckoning in the dark between hawthorn bushes,
To a bend where I will stare up at an attic window,
To see a child’s face looking out into the darkness,
Listening to his mother sing in the kitchen below,
His hands at the glass pane, his gaze rapturous,
Already in his mind a nomad, a wandering hobo.


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