Once was was.

It looks like Ireland.

It smells like Ireland.

It’s France.

One is home.

One is romantic adventure.

Both are wet.

It’s raining and the sheep smell, what more can I say?

They look at me; I look at them.

They chew.

I walk on.

If this was Ireland there would be a pub down the lane.

If this was France there would be a café.

Right now I fancy a coffee, later a pint.

But I’m in a field. 

The field is green.

And yellow.

And blue.

And pink.

And purple.

And white.

There are many flowers.

No pub.

No café.

A stone ruin.

The past.

The longing.