This poem was developed by a small writing group who met as part of the small park BIG RUN that year. It is on the theme of that year – refugees:
I have left my history
clothes in the cupboard plants in the garden
who will eat the beans now?
the litany of what I should have brought gets longer: a stick to walk with
dried fruit matches better shoes door key
but they could change the locks
and now I think: scissors scissors of course if only I had scissors.
What exact thing should I have brought to remind me of me?
We can’t look at once in all directions and can be seen for miles
unless we lie flat and still in clothes the colour of ground
all we have as defence is how we move and what we have on our backs
if we are found we could be lost
we must stay lost to find the way
beetles ants we creep up the slope scan the hillside for men dogs
we cannot rest too long those who pass us might forget us or take our place
shouts in the distance thundering feet
I am ablaze with dry mouth sandpapered rough
thickly sticky lips cracked tree bark throat closes over words unspoken
I flash a dripping tap a bubbling spring a watering can
a wave that never comes never crashes
someone gives us bread sweetness spreads as I chew
now I can wash my feet tension skimmed off but not poured out
I reach out to feel the soil beneath me fall into desperate dark,
someone drops a pan and I start up shaking how do I know it is safe?
Home is a place you can go back to at will
where your history sits where the language spoken is your language
days punctuated by those small routines
kitchen cupboards with the spices you need to cook a pan big enough for the family
the locked door the shuttered window
rattle of army trucks roared into the village
it’s not my home now people roam round it
plan a future that doesn’t include me.