On Not Going Home Again

Across remembered waters, bay and sea,

the island lies that I will not forget,

the one I know I'll never see again.

The mountains and the rivers nurtured me.

In memory the crashing waves repeat

their rhythmic play on ancient cliffs of stone.

Old forests grow unhindered, thick and tall,

fed well by rich dark soil, by gentle rain –

in memory. In fact they've since been cut,
the lakes and streams polluted, air made foul.

All gone.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides