I fear for the soil

The mother and

Child in tow

The gentle hello

To my foreign wife

I fear that when

She leaves the house

She might not come back

The bus stop is danger

The supermarket

The train

Walking down the streets

I called my own

But now they are “Theirs”

And we must be quiet and hide

Until my country comes back

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The Song Of The Wandering

In darkness deeper than the mine
where, once, I scraped my fingers to the bone
a silver seam of moonlight
breaks across the boiling blackness
and I let those self same fingers
idly trail in the cold Mediterranean.
I dream of the golden sunlight
left behind in the dust, distress and bullets.

That was then and this is now.
The churning sea, the angry orders
s...

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