You can listen to the birds singing, but the very best sound

is chicken wire, slip-slapping against wooden boardwalks 

dried in the summer sun, every step echoed by the rustling

of tall reeds. Second best is wet gravel, first splash

 

followed by a sker-runch and slide, a gritty bitty sound

squelching into wet mud. At the day’s end, walking boots 

ker-thunking on asphalt, or concrete, make your knees 

twinge, and your feet think of fluffy slippers.

 

You can smell the flowers in the trees, but the best smell

is mud; simple, wet, earthy green growing mossy in your nose

and slick under your shoes. Dried grasses swaying smell

like a beach in winter, and sphagnum like green, and damp,

 

and wet socks, and slight regret. Sometimes the best smell

is sausage rolls, cold on the hill or warm at the café,

where finally you can sit and rest your weary legs,

and sip hot chocolate with almost more cream than mug.

 

You can feel the ache in your legs, but the best feeling

of them all is sunlight on your back at the end of winter,

taking off the coat you’ve been wearing 

for the last three months and letting the air flow

 

against your skin, feeling the gravel scrunch under your shoes,

feeling the scent of the grass in your head - and your heart,

the green damp growing, the spring air blowing,

and, for a fleeting step, thinking that you know

what people mean when they say they feel at home.