His Country Is Calling Me

Libby Hart

And when I say his country,

I mean the sweet, sad earth of line and skin. Track of bone, of limb.

His country is calling me.

And when I say his country,

I mean that haunt of eyes, cliff of smile. Lea of uncut hair.

I mean that crowded city of heart. His knoll of soul.

I mean blood roar. I mean lush beat.

Each hammer and drum.

Its heat -- a chant, a spell.