Climate exile

 

Climate exile

I am a climate exile

Driven from my home 

By long Irish winters

And by my aging bones. 

It’s not my fault

My blood runs thin

From pills and potions

That prolong my living. 

To wear the threadbare robes 

Sold in a seaside town

To endure the name and shame

Of a rootless tourist blow in. 

Neither local nor rooted

I spend the sunny days 

Sad but happy, happy but sad

Under a faded parasol. 

Looking for a tribe

But solo in my rooms 

Of course I miss the craic

And the humor of back home. 

All the things I love to hate

I’d pack them in my case

But being far too numerous

Too heavy for the plane. 

It is a first world problem

But I am a first world fellow

I suppose I’ll  still be whinging 

If I ever get to heaven.