Try to understand me,
where I come from, where I’m going;
I’m drifting and I need you
to save my hopes from ruin.
You’ll need to know what splits me,
my need for roots and dreams;
it’s not the earth that hurts me,
it’s the tyrants and their schemes.
My father sailed the world before me,
to Rio and to Spain;
his father taught him shells and ships
and how to smile in pain.
Mother stayed at home and nursed,
came from a quiet place;
she ran the river and the green,
grew strong, with a gentle face.
I split my tongue in the early days,
shook off asthma as I grew,
fell into school and struggled out,
just clutching what I knew.
I was bred for something ‘better’,
for an office on fifth floor,
away from sea-spray and stray sheep,
with my name upon the door.
My mother and my father
scraped and saved for me,
bruised each other in the process,
gave up smoking and the sea.
Try to understand me,
why I’ve come back to earth;
it’s because I need to know myself
and the landscape of my birth.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
