• Lara Flanagan

The siren song of home




I have travelled to many places,

some close, others far away.

From New York to London to Florence,

and then to San Jose.

But there was always something calling,

wherever I would roam,

a distant, constant echo,

the siren song of home.


I have walked on aged cobblestones,

at night wandered London’s lanes,

I have heard Big Ben strike the hour,

and rushed for the final train.

I lived in Blighty for many years,

but something was always known,

a haunting, lilting melody,

the siren song of home.


In Florence, I fell in love with another world,

and talked to Da Vinci in my head,

I felt that I walked in the pages

of every book that I had read.

I got lost by the canals of Venice,

and traipsed the alleyways of Rome,

I knew that I could live there, but for

the siren song of home.


The song is found in the Eucalypts,

in the whispering of gum leaves,

it is formed on our sandy beaches,

on the warmest summer breeze.

It is crafted by the scorching sun

on a land that ancient ones call their own.

The dust of drought, the smell of rain,

the siren song of home.

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