Lonely in Ireland
, since it was not home
Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff
Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:
Once that was recognised, we were in touch.
y streets, end-on to hills, the faint
smell of dockland, like a stable,
’s cry, dwindling, went
To prove me separate
, not unworkable
Living in England
has no such excuse:
These are my custom
s and establishment
It would be much more serious to refuse
Here no elsewhere underwrite
s my existence.
I think every expatriate feels this way at one point or another. It’s a counterweight to the homesickness and culture shock generated by the clash between where we’re from and where we are now. A new country is a chance to reinvent ourselves, and an excuse for not fitting in.
It can make it hard to go home again.