Had it been the place in which I was conceived,
Then surely the light would not be relief.
Had it loved the street on which I was born;
From the socket, bones would surely be torn;
From the sockets on which I walk so free;
From Standen street to the timid oak tree.

I’ve known it to follow whichever I roam, from conception to birth to the warm missed tomb.

I hear it
I hear it call
I hear it
I’ve heard it all