When I was younger, I dreamt
of when I didn’t have to sit

on a bus for an age to get
to the centre of something,

when I could live there,
in a place with sleep
patterns like mine, where

things happened.

Now I’ve returned,
that same bus journey
is spent

staring at everything,
making the most of
the landscape, not just

rushing
to reach the horizon.

And now, returned,
I’ve found that
I like to sleep

where the only sounds
are the wind

and the hourly church bells,
maybe an owl,

and not the insect
buzz of cars, the sirens
like mosquitoes,

the screams and shouts.

And that I like to sit
on grass,
near trees,

and not have
to keep my eyes wide
for anything but the view.

I like to pass an unknown
but friendly face and smile

and say hi
and how’s it going
and isn’t the weather nice?
because it is.

And I like to let myself
be open to it all
and not worry

about everyone around
taking me
off-guard.

Out here, the night
is clear: crisp, but
I can see the stars,

every last one,
all laid out.

I like the city lights
too, sometimes,

in passing,
never still.

But when I think
of a favourite colour,
I think of beige:

not the beige of
the hallway in

a suburban house,
ready to sell,

but the beige of the fields
seamed together with hedgerows,
worn like patches

on a warm, well-loved coat
wrapped around
my shoulders,

around the shoulders
of my village,
my childhood home.

Now, in my centre,
the centre of the country,
of the countryside,
I can breathe.

And I will always
crave fields
and stars
and peace.