The Orange Grove

When the wanderlust runs out and you just miss home.

In the barefoot farms of Cancer's great crescent,
grow the orange groves and black skin bursa figs.
The empty homes of cuttle fish and hollow whistle bones.

Valencia may hold vines and glades of grape widowed spines.
Red and white partitions,
hemispheres the sun divides.

But beard and pipes black teeth release
rich fog into mine ermined eyes.
In billowing white loam I see white light and home reside.

Of lakes and dells and dales and places far away I wish,
Awaking spells and my mind sails to memories
dead fish.