Tuesday, May 13


At twentyone I left the land
And travelled on the Irish Sea.
I reached a southern port
And taught the children
On the chalky hills.
They thought I was a foreigner

French perhaps.

At twentysix I travelled north
And settled in a smokey town,
Where words were old and beer
Was drunk on Friday nights
In crowded bars.
They thought I was a foreigner.

Scotch perhaps.

In troubled times I went back west
To where the planted people lived.
And dodged the bombs and
Feared the fires where city folk
Still walked and worked.
I felt I was a foreigner.

English perhaps.

Now forty years have come and gone.
And wars are fought and lives are lost,
And fights are won or
So they say though where
Or when I do not know.
And none of us are foreigners.

Human perhaps.

...this is my response to the prompt put up by Marina on DeVerse Poets Pub today.
I have posted this one before but the time seems right in so many ways world wide for it to  be part of DeVerse  this time.....thankyou Marina.