I miss Britain, with her decent food, still
water, and words I understand.

I lie awake and count the days to go until
I can see that pocketful of precious islands,
and smell that sea-salt, green-grass air.

It's been too long since I set eyes on a real Welsh
daffodil, or wandered without half a care
through fresh English fields. I wonder if Britain herself
misses me – I think she might. What mother
does not miss her distant child? I half-dream
of her comforting embrace as I drift to sleep in another's
night – too hot or too cold, it seems
to me – and wonder as I lie alone
what friendly day will take me home.