It's Still Life

Bloomsday

I’d triumphed over that hill, the one I could never manage when the weather welded my joints, and now I stood there in a cold squint of low setting sun. Directly south was Spain. East was France. West was home – but it’s a distance too far no matter how far away west is – there’s nothing left there to recognise, and isn’t that what home is – familiarity that sings in your bones. A deep understanding, an empathy, even if it’s inexplicable. But home’s become my heresy, hordes leaving me to wondering about moral direction, the definition of straight-talking, the merits of plain-thinking. I’m not sure who said it, but I’m thinking there’s truth in the saying – you can never go home. Perhaps home’s where you find like-minded people, people who understand you even when you do the inexplicable —  like a hill you can manage even when the weather turns.

our tranquil brightness
lost thoughts sweet as tea and jam
Tiens, quel petit pied! *

*  “Tiens, quel petit pied!” (French trans.) ‘My, what a small foot,‘ from James Joyce’s “Ulysses” page 49.  Written for Miz Quickly who’s at #4 and counting down.