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From the coast. West. Island? Maybe Scotland or Wales. Brought up on Atlantic storms Seaweed, mussels, really fresh fish Caught by Dad, or me, or neighbours. Ruddy glow, strong limbed, Music made at home.		This dream of timeless place and mood Remains just dream for most. Freedom to reinvent is always Tempered by need to stay the same. Revolution requires sacrifice; Family, friends, comfort and things, Our knowledge obsolete and babes again.
Not, perhaps, a rare dream. Many, as adults, try to live Their now ideas of perfect childhood. But how many live only disappointment As their own children prefer TV tat, And bemoan slow connections Instead of realising self.		To put ourselves through revolution Deliberately, carefully planned, no return, Takes the courage we regret not learning. To those who succeed we owe a debt; Those who find their island Are the truly brave. The exceptional. We others always look to the land.
Never learning to strip a bicycle, Much less to build and sail their own boat. For nowhere is a time island Remote from debilitating influence. Simplicity cannot easily be found By spending money earned in the world; As we learned to earn so we learned to spend.		But through our eyes and wills We can review our lives Making small, irregular steps Outside our comfort. As open to disaster as joy; To others as ourselves; To our needs before our desires.