Song Of The Outport Poem by Patrick O'Reilly

I'd run, run, run
Til my legs carry me over those wild green hills,
Kicking through thorn bushes and leaping over alders.
I'd worry about the scrapes on my legs tomorrow.

At the top of this world, I gaze out over the cove.
Woodstacks have replaced those imposing skyscrapers,
And a hundred smoking chimneys fill the air
With a crisp autumn feeling, matching the smoke of my breath.
The sky was already grey
And the dew hung like a thousand little homesick tears.
Stars.

I swing my legs over the rickety, skeletal fences
And I stare across the wide salt sea,
The tradewinds challenging my pose,
Forcing me to taste its brine.

The broad majestic Atlantic stretches on forever,
Like those sleepy August days
When we'd skip rocks across its tides and lay under the sun
Poking in through the fog.

There is a ship waiting in the harbour.
I curse the masts, and the sails, and the hull.
I'll be damned if I'll be taken away again.