and when

and when home feels further away and relationships around me feel older than the hills, and I feel cast adrift, words are there. It sounds worn out and worn through, but coming home today with distance heavy on my shoulders (Dale's right, the world might be getting smaller but from where we sit, that's a crock of shit) I sat down to acquaint myself with Sean O'Brien, and as I read a sad poem, full of the strain and grey of England's north, I felt washed with warmth and little sparks of sad electricity.
Only the impossible is worth the effort, right?

Anyway, I hope I'm not breaking any laws quoting O'Brien here:

Be with me when they cauterise the facts.
Be with me to the bottom of the page,
Insisting on what history exacts.
Be memory, be conscience, will and rage,
And keep me cold and honest, cousin coat,
So if I lie, I'll know you're at my throat.