I don’t know if it is the air:
Clean and fresh like an ice-cold beer, bubbles rising, condensation on the glass,
Enough to quench the fiercest thirst;
Because sometimes…
It’s more like warm flat ale, the dregs of a barrel,
Forced down, because it cannot possibly go to waste.

Maybe it’s the trees:
Aged beings, firm trunks, twisting branches, rustling leaves,
All kinds of greens - magic matter drawn from thin air;
Although sometimes…
I am not so keen, when a dipping twig catches me in the eye,
Or a gnarly root sends me sprawling to the ground.

Perhaps it is the quiet:
Only the soft, gentle, companion sounds to the peacefulness of nature’s play,
The babbling of a stream, the stir of swaying grass, the lowing of distant beasts;
Although sometimes…
The incessant cawing racket of jackdaws, batters my ears and interrupts my calm,
Far more acutely than the hum of traffic or the playground shrieks of children.

It can also be the smells:
Sweet fragrances of flowers, fresh cut hay, that first exhalation of dry soil after a sorely-needed drink of rain;
Although sometimes…
There are certain emanations, animal and vegetable that have me rushing to hold my nose.

I wonder whether it is the sky:
Deep blue, adorned with a constantly changing dance of clouds,
Then fading to burning orange before the deepest black be-jewelled with silver stars;
But sometimes…
Such vastness can be far too much,
For this brain to consume in one sitting.

It’s definitely the route:
Words in the book, lines upon the map, places to stop for a view,
A little piece of history, a drink and a big piece of cake;
Although sometimes…
The wrong words have been used, those lines have simply not been drawn in the right places,
And the much-anticipated tea shop is closed, just because it is Wednesday.

It’s tempting to think it is the solitude:
Just me and the hills and the trees and the birds and… and… and…
Although, if I am really honest, I will admit that sometimes…
That can also be a state of loneliness.

In any case, it’s certainly also the companionship:
Sauntering along, side-by-side, ahead, behind,
Talking about the world around us, solving problems, making plans;
Although sometimes…
You just will not walk at the right speed and yes, I do know that I drive you crazy
Every time I stop to listen out for birds or to take one more arty snap with the app or the camera on my phone.

I think it could simply be the scale of it:
Always as far as the eye can see (and then beyond into the land of imagination),
Stretching back through an infinitude of whens and forward into yet more thens;
Although sometimes,
As truly awe-inspiring as that can be to consider,
I’m reminded that really there is only here and now.

So it seems to be the all of it:
Air, trees, quiet, smells, sky, route, solitude, companionship, scale and more, a little piece of all of the everything that has ever been,
Regardless of whether I, and all the others just like me, am here to do my worst whilst all the time I try to do my best.
Because we can build things, shape things, sell things and waste things,
But when I take a walk outside, away from all the stuff,
And when I allow myself to forget what I think I am, just for a moment,
Well then I am home.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

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About this poem: Our summer holidays tend to be based around walking in nature and I always find that this activity helps my brain to slow down and provides a great source of nourishment for my thinking. During the process of writing ‘Home’ I reflected on what it is that makes walking in nature such an important and grounding activity for me and as I ran through various possibilities and found counter-arguments for each one I came to realise that there is no single magic ingredient – it was simply that walking in nature was where I felt most at home.