never, reaching too fars,
next to ancestors graves
always, comes up home,
taste ó salt air, soily spey,
off-white washed cottage
grey in webbed shadows
by the tangles of streams
surrounding to dankness,
cavern into the sun, outs
in great wides and opens,
chimney smokes, signals,
yet whole world is closed
to me, nestled with family,
in wee drab cottage world.