An exiles lament

Myself after her death
I’m exiled from what used to be
my country. It welcomed me
with gifts of peace and of storms,
with heights of mountains
and altitudes of joy.
Not now.
No, says the wall, and I turn back.
No, says the mountain
And I sit sad in the valley
Listening to the river that says
Trespasser, trespasser, trespasser.
I stubbornly say, All the same
It’s still beautiful.
And I know that’s true
But I know also
Why it fails to recognise me.

                        - THE POEMS OF NORMAN MACCAIG, edited by Ewen MacCaig,