I left the house of my reincarnation
before the swallows returned
the year they cancelled the Grand National.
I walked out the door
before dawn disappeared, drove through a dream
as if in a dismal draft of corked Dolcetto.
I pitched my leaky tent in Wiltshire
’til forced out by a wife’s thirst
Winter hardened the road I travelled
as I wished to wallow like a pig
in the hot mud Bladud found.
I sailed back to the Province of my birth
in a ferry beset by bleeding ballast,
into the storm of a tiger’s saliva
whipped by Irish bankers, Roman bishops,
windy politicians and uncivil servants.
The rant of ravaged youths, refugees from famine,
coursed through my bloodstream, out my throat
and stained my pen.
I wrote resurrection out of my will.
until I flew to the city of surprised eyes,
until I sat opposite my child in Southark
speaking of the Golan, green with cotton,
forgetting Masada and the Dead Sea
and lived to swim again
among dreadlocks, hijabs, sidecurls, pale people
until at last I greet myself
arriving at my own house
in my own skin
and we smile again
reunited over broken bread
and the words of one imagination.