His Country Is Calling Me

Libby Hart

And when I say his country, 

 I mean the sweet, sad earth of line and skin. Track of bone, of limb. 

 His country is calling me. 

And when I say his country, 

 I mean that haunt of eyes, cliff of smile. Lea of uncut hair. 

 I mean that crowded city of heart. His knoll of soul. 

I mean blood roar. I mean lush beat. 

 Each hammer and drum. 

 Its heat -- a chant, a spell.