I watch the moorhen slip
through the thicket of reeds with ease,
crimson bill slicing lakes
slick with quill-oil
as she pushes through bulrush and weeds
to feed her chicks with perfect self-certainty
and I resent her for it.
I return to a house I don’t own
with white walls and thoughts,
fumbling with keys
to drag in plastic-wrapped groceries
ready for another working week
neck-deep in spreadsheets
so I can afford my existence.
I itch to moult
this cage from my skin,
shed tax codes, small talk and time,
feel my instincts alighting,
a call to realignment –
home’s O no longer a hollowed-out nest
for me to curl up in.
If only I could return to the earth,
renew rhythm in person and place,
cash in humanity
and once withdrawn
take flight through forests and over seas,
branches and waves parting
to welcome me home.