We can already feel the detachment from place,
the displacement of home, the need to leave because of
a bond that cannot hold, a village that cannot survive the forces
being arrayed against it: the development schemes, the banality
that will soon encroach the natural beauty of the gorges and
their pastoral approaches, the creative community about to be overwhelmed
by the onslaught of exurban commuters and the monied superficialities of tourist traps.
It is never wise to make a last stand on a landscape of sinkholes.
Friendships will survive, though some are already dying on the vine,
others, still to come, are growing: there are regrets and warm memories,
but the going is already in motion, like a iceberg calving,
not yet fallen into the sea, a stately inevitability,
far enough off that we can downsize before packing,
the acceptance and sorrows within the erosion of belonging.
June 2 2015