The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

In the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper, You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way around.

-Margaret Atwood

What can't we just appreciate a good piece of work? Why do we have to tear it apart and analyse it?

Heard this today and really loved it :)

Also read a very cool book today called I had a Blcak Dog by Matthew Johnstone.

One down four to go.