Oliver Thompson

132 miles before
    the bitter-sweet sound of the radio 
    led me into a blissful void,
    its sweet sounds
    putting me
    at instant ease.

132 miles later
    I’m sat in sinful silence
    my solitude is accompanied
    by boxes of nostalgia
    my mistaken innocence
    my hiraeth
    the sound of my uncle’s acoustic guitar.

It echoes in my head
as I grieve on those authentic streets
where empty blue skies are replaced
with clouds of cigarette smoke.

Hiraeth: a bitter-sweet word itself,
which can be found
at the comfort
and switch
of a radio.