I am not of the city

I was listening to a radio 4 poetry programme where each poet had written about their city. Here was my response, though it is one I think I could come back to over time.

I am not of the city

I am not of the city.

I am of the trees and flowers,
The fields and hills and open skies.

I breathe not like the constant, steady hum of traffic, but like the wind,
At times gentle, at times flustered and at times hard and harsh and un-controllable.

I am not of the hustle and bustle of city streets,
But of the quiet country lanes that wind up and down, contorted and convoluted but still reaching their destination.

My eyes prefer not the grey, nor shiny skyscrapers,
But a landscape of undulating earth, old buildings and animals grazing free.

I am not of the artificially lit skies of the city,
I am of the vast, open, star infused skies of the countryside,
Where I can hold my arms open and breathe in that truest feeling of happiness.

My home is the country.
My heart reminds me each time I return to where I belong, that I am not of the city.