The strangeness of returning

The strangeness of returning

back from belfast,
the streets, the houses, my room
seem peculiar

tainted with the flavour
of regurgitated elsewhere.

all here
seeming softly newly proximate,
to all there.

give it a few hours.

while the ink of ireland,
threads ribbons of coloured smoke
through the water of home.

(marvel at its shape-shifting strangeness)

until all dissolves
into the flavourless see-through of here.

these trees, these curtains, that rose
struggle free -

the tarnish of elsewhere withers
into Rich Tea plainness.