Why I Keep Coming Back - Ron Blicq

In the willful days of seasoned brigands,
Who on stormy nights sought local islands,
Guernsey fell within their frame of reference,
Not always to the Islanders' preference.
(Except, perhaps, women of ill repute,
Who hoped to share the brigands' loot.)

But that's not the reason for my return
To the island of my birth, where I learn
Once again how yellow-petalled daffodils
Are a cure for latent mid-winter ills.
I remember how they'd sway and nod
When, as a boy, on my pedals I trod.

I was unaware then I should take the pains,
As I cycled through The Hubits' lanes,
To observe how I had created a breeze
That caused the shaded petals, still at ease,
To tremble and wave, as if to a friend.
But on my way I continued to wend.

A memory now lies hidden, waiting,
Ready to beckon as I lie searching
For sleep, of the cliff paths above Saints Bay.
A gull hovering in the wind, hoping I may
Part with a morsel, thrown above the gorse
For him to snap; yet I don't, without remorse.

The gull looks bleakly at me, dips a wing
And soars down to the waves, searching
For a careless fish swimming close to shore:
A dive, a gulp, and the fish is no more.
Yellow gorse clings from cliff top to sands,
Pretty, prickly, but only for wary hands!

I know in my heart it's the beating waves,
Rising from sandy beach to the cliff caves,
Or lapping in the harbour at Portelet,
That rest in my mind, ne'er letting me forget,
How lucky to have been born and lived here,
And able to return: so worth a cheer!

Ron Blicq