This is not return to former glory,
this is not some played out coming home scene.
This is a playground strewn with scattered thorns,
a slippery glen laced with buttercup hugs and slugs.
This is not what there once was or a rebirth from death.
This is softer, a mountain of mallow, pitted with goats along the way.
Later, things will be greater than the sum of parts and haters will stumble from scorn and distant mist.