Another Tongue
Forgotten forever? Not in this season.
Not while rose hips ripen, and syrup
of evening woodsmoke calls us home.
Not while we still smell the ancient soil
that held the Saxon at bay for fourteen centuries,
until our own motorway completed the invasion.
Waleas Eig: Island of Foreigners.
While our wet earth waits, hidden
under concrete, I breathe
my land and remain
a hidden foreigner. | 
