Mumbles greets, with
the ping of welcome, the
smell of new, Welsh
crafted gifts and the
slow-down of browse.
Home is in the accent,
in the dragon on a chain,
in the protest of my heart when away.
I am back, and the sea is
my pacing companion, my
frenzied host, as it hails
green and grey silk,
weaves all, waves all, salts me.
The pier awaits, a promise of
creaks and sway, the monkey swing, if
it’s still there, my mother’s voice is
still inside, reminding me I was a child
Withholding my toe from the
slip-risk of boards, the
tread of high tales, suspended
on swirl, my fears winning out,
K. S. Moore
(First Published in The Seventh Quarry).
As a Welsh woman, living away from my original home, I sometimes get intense attacks of homesickness. It’s places I miss, and Mumbles is just one of those destinations I can imagine, but not experience, until I embark on an infrequent and fleeting trip to Swansea.
Next time I go home, I will find a pier, very different from the one I remember from childhood. The area is in the middle of redevelopment, which is positive, but it can sometimes be difficult for me to witness so much change, all in one moment, when I visit. Despite this, home will always be home. It’s more of a feeling, rather than something tangible.