In technicolour, the locals squabble on the platform 
to direct the stranger, whilst Old Michaeleen Flynn 
sensing some return, quietly takes up the luggage.  
Drawing up at the derelict cottage, her voice recalled: 
Don’t you remember, Seany, how it was? Whitewashed. 
Thatched. Roses. Once again. A birth-right reclaimed: 
I’ve come home, and home is where I’m going to stay. 
 
You’ll realise this is where your life is. Leaving again. 
Dulled green pastures reflect off the bus window. 
Behind, the doubled-life which almost claimed anew 
an emboldened spirit - a promise, long past. 
That night, the last, taking hold of the once possessed;  
the fleeing face - a mother’s self-preservation:  
I’d like to say Goodbye now, and only once.