The Pilgrims Return to England They sit reclined in chairs of ancient oak, Their heritage a haze reflected through a cloud of smoke; And though they try to bring Some purpose to their quest, They feel consumed, And simply choke - at best. They ponder as surroundings seem surreal, The isolation that their hearts now feel; And though they crave Connection to the womb, The mother’s arms Seem tantamount to gloom. They drink it in - yet all too much, They fail to feel connection or the mother’s touch; The cord seems cut Time’s distance brings, A parting To all maternal strings. by: John Woods, 26th March 2002 ¤Aü§Póꆙ¤                View My Guestbook Sign My Guestbook