In Search of Elrond
I have been a long way from home all my life.
I was born in the Royal Hospital for Women
in Randwick, Eastern Sydney
but home was in Casula, in its South West.
I was raised among the smell of machine oil,
motors, and carpentry, and of the smell
of the sweat of cricket and football.
All of this had its charm, but home
smelt like a book, and had a desk
where everything was written down.
I have been so many places where nothing is
written down and there’s a charm to forgetfulness.
I was born an innocent baby, so far removed
from the sardonic old man
who has always lived in my home.
There has always been a prevailing wind
in my face, blowing me back as my boat
tracks the oceans, as my boots trek the forests and wastelands,
in search of the place where I can find that Last Homely House.
Now my hair is streaked grey,
and my beard is as white as a resurrected Gandalf.
I have come to the Last Homely House, I have
books, and I write everything down.
I know things, I welcome people,
I fight things, and I counsel my tribe.
And I have come home, an elf living
between our world and the wildlands.
And I can finally have a drink.
