It’s in my bones, the old country.
The first hour in blighty and I stepped into Heathrow,
no heath no row just so you know,  
into the carpark building, whose walls I will call bones,
the building’s skeleton, holding cars in the sky,  
they were made of concrete, which is made of bones,
I’m no geologist but trust me I know.
I ran slap bang into the smell,
of my grandparent’s kitchen.
A building long since gone  
and even if it had not met such a fate,
it was 2 days under my feet.
Took a hundred when they came.
Here I was feeling it,
the smell of worn leather ,
and fine bone concrete,
and a hint of iron rich blood ,
the suggestion of flesh, once carved.
It was my first time in England,
looking for ancestral roots.
I ran straight into this ghost,
a welcoming committee,
from the other side,
my atheist shoulder felt the touch,
of my grandfather’s hand ,
he didn’t have faith either ,
till a last hedged bet,
but here we were,
both facing the fact,
that it’s really in the bones.