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Now take me again to my island,
in nature there let me delight;
the fretting, the fuming, the fury –
Atlantic at play or in spite:
where man is his judge, his own jury,
nor life a perpetual fight.

Yes, take me from traffic and TV,
where solitude lets a man think;
no slogans or gimmicks to worry,
no beatniks or folk with a kink;
where labour at need, without hurry,
produces a communal link.

Down south, above latitude forty,
the Old Laws are loved and obeyed:
from ban-the-bomb factions escaping,
from manners I’d rather evade –
the mass-minded aping and gaping,
strike bogeys, and bogus parade.

T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.

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