Curiosity had always drawn him
To the edge of the wood
The edge of the farm
The edge of the cliff.
More than once as a child
He’d been found beyond his limits
In the middle of a forest once
Half way down a rock face too.
They called it then a wanderlust
As if it was some awful failing
Which wasn’t really so at all
He always knew his heading.
Today most folk call him a nomad
Much closer now to the truth
For he had never stopped in his travelling
Having journeyed through his entire life.
There was so little he found of no interest
It had always been like this
He would keep along on his journey
Till they finally placed him in the earth.
For if a man can take the time in life
To see what the good earth has to give
By giving in to his inner nomad
What magnificent bounty he’ll receive.
©Joe Wilson – The nomad…2016