MARCH
It started as a whisper
Bubbling beneath the surface
Hushed, at first, by the sweet comfort of home, of welcoming faces and the safety of familiarity
But now that voice is screaming
It is fuelled by wanderlust, I admit
This voice is not new
The voice has always been inside
It can be appeased by trips away
But it will always return
Louder and fiercer than ever
