The Mountain

I missed poetry Friday last week, due to a fantastically hectic few days (I got a new job. Squee!). So, today is both a late poetry Friday and also a few thoughts on something that every person living outside the country they grew up in feels.

Most days, living in Britain, are fine. I react mostly like an English person these days; I stand in my one-person-queue at bus stops, I refuse to remove my coat on the Tube even when sweat is running down my face because the temperature outside the Tube is still artic, I find it vaugely disconcerting when people talk to me outside of bars in public places and am slightly awkward in social situations that do not involve alcohol. Nonetheless, I'm not English.

On Saturday, I got into a discussion with an Aussie girl about what it's like to live in another country for any lenght of time that isn't your own. Today's poem perfectly describes, to me, what those days that aren't fine are like.

The Exile's Lament

Beneath the golden balm
Settling on the fields
Evening steals in calm
And farmers count their yields.

The bee is in lavender,
The honey fills teh comb,
But here a rain falls never-ending
And I am far from home.

- Jacqueline Carey

And right now, this is what I miss the most.