132 miles before
the bitter-sweet sound of the radio
led me into a blissful void,
its sweet sounds
putting me
at instant ease.
132 miles later
I’m sat in sinful silence
my solitude is accompanied
by boxes of nostalgia
my mistaken innocence
my hiraeth
the sound of my uncle’s acoustic guitar.
It echoes in my head
as I grieve on those authentic streets
where empty blue skies are replaced
with clouds of cigarette smoke.
Hiraeth: a bitter-sweet word itself,
which can be found
at the comfort
and switch
of a radio.
