Poem: Migratory Roots
By Robin Collins
this great mnemonic,
land of the English, Celt and flint knappers of another age.
The seas wrap around her cliffs,
never letting the kingdom sleep,
haunting her people
with the foam capped thud of waves,
telling us to remember, remember.
The seas carried our distant ancestors,
unrecorded faces and names,
making the way across,
that ancient pollination of migration.
Britain in the becoming,
the great life stream of cultures.
Without the crossing over,
this island would be unnamed;
for all the towns and rivers
we speak were names
on a tongue that came
over the waves.
This is who we have,
swirling in the coda of our blood:
The sea reminds us we all go back
to some long forgotten family in a boat,
making the journey to stay,
to home make.
This island in the midst of moving peoples.