Homecoming in November

Homecoming is gentle. The sea that Homer called
Winedark, windflecked, wild; the green hill stays
Cloudsuckling as before. Brittle the voice Of birds and leaf susurrus.

To walk down the road again and yarn
With Uncle Jack, buy matches at the store,
Saying: "Yes, it's good to be back home."
All this is trite and easy

As flying in a dream. But what is home?
A black pool deep as death. Have I not seen
The hill break like a boil with lava, and
The clay field sweating bloody.

Whom shall I blame? A trivial hour can hide
The roots of irrefrangible lethargy.
Downstairs a clock strikes twelve. Clatter of forks
And slow sad radio music.