David Waterhouse 
Nomadness 

Always visions of other lands haunt my ravaged mind and the ghosts of old lovers swirl in the fog of my brain. Habits and routine are my captors, the jailers that speak to me of bounds, fences and walls, yet my soul flies on the wild wind, searching for a home. I long to burn across new terrain like a meteor crashing through the dull and nebulous layers of this tired earths’ atmosphere. When shall I walk among the foothills of the Old Gods and feel new breezes blow through this shattered mind? To set the senses reeling and lose myself in the swirling fog of new emotion.Everything is growing, bursting out of itself like an explosion and creatures mass and swarm at some silent command. Is this the hand of God stirring his pot of wonders?And then the storms and the wild winds, the constant rains although warm- still crazy and without reason. All of nature here spinning and weaving, screaming in the minds of men. Here is the torrent, the onrush of life, the lesson to be learned, easily given and so readily taken up by poets and dreamers. Wild living, careless exaggeration, wonders of creation, the Psalms of the fields and forests.Listen then, listen to the songs and hear their frantic message, for there is a force greater than any man can know that is flowing faster than an avalanche. Eye and limb, branch and spore- nature has gone mad and man is afraid because the spirits of old lives are whistling in the wind.