Mark Campbell


The fresh dew touched green grass of home
Which impregnates my heart with a lasting memory forever
As I think back to the weather beaten hills which I love so much
With paths cut, carved into them
Like veins, lifelines by the countless travellers exploring for peace and solitude
How I once gazed down at those grey rocks
Scattered innocently by the gentle grace of nature, in once a violent past
So far from here, in a bygone age of easy living,
A time trap
These mountains, Oh mountains of mine, my kingdom, I cry to the wind,
I love you
The breeze hugs my ears, gently whispering,
“You are home, my child.”

Author’s Note: Written while on active duty during the first Gulf War