Born inside a wooden barrel,
sparrows wreathed my newborn head
with leaves of oak and twigs so narrow,
I shared with worms and mice my bed.

Born inside a mountain cave,
I shivered in the snow and mist.
Each night on rock my head was laid,
But I was eager to exist.

Born inside a fishing boat,
beneath a flock of circling gulls,
I slept sound in coils of rope.
my rocking chair− the weathered hull.

Born within a plain brick home,
I cried for mother in my crib.
I longed for oak and ocean foam,
And things that urban life forbid.