The stranger.

I am a stranger:
there is no home;
I roam, roam, roam -
no seat in Rome,
no earthly throne.
My home is where I was born,
forlorn, from where I want to be -
beside the sea, by the trees;
but that is not my home.
My home soon becomes lost to me.
The jungles of the Congo,
the forests of Nigeria,
the hills of Yorkshire or Devon,
or Hampstead Heath,
offer me no heaven, nor peace; no home:
I go wandering through the antiquity
of my forefathers' feet -
the women whom I meet
make me long for home.
I am a wind
passing over the landscape, over the hills,
kicking up the dust;
that aged crust
sinks, soon swallows all trace of me,
apart from the journey of my bones.