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:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have left my history\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/em> We can\u2019t look at once in all directions and can be seen for miles I am ablaze with dry mouth sandpapered rough Home is a place you can go back to at will 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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0clothes in the cupboard \u00a0 plants in the garden\u00a0who will eat the beans now?the litany of what I should have … <\/p>\n
clothes in the cupboard \u00a0 plants in the garden\u00a0<\/em>
who will eat the beans now?<\/em>
the litany of what I should have brought gets longer: a stick to walk with<\/em>
dried fruit\u00a0 matches\u00a0 better shoes\u00a0 door key\u00a0<\/em>
but they could change the locks<\/em>
and now I think: scissors\u00a0 scissors\u00a0 of course \u00a0 if only I had scissors.<\/em>
What exact thing should I have brought to remind me of me?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
unless we lie flat and still in clothes the colour of ground <\/em>
all we have as defence is how we move and what we have on our backs<\/em>
if we are found we could be lost<\/em>
we must stay lost to find the way <\/em>
beetles ants we creep up the slope scan the hillside for men dogs<\/em>
we cannot rest too long those who pass us might forget us or take our place<\/em>
shouts in the distance thundering feet<\/p>\n\n\n\n
thickly sticky lips cracked tree bark throat closes over words unspoken<\/em>
I flash a dripping tap a bubbling spring a watering can <\/em>
a wave that never comes never crashes<\/em>
someone gives us bread sweetness spreads as I chew <\/em>
now I can wash my feet tension skimmed off but not poured out<\/em>
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?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
where your history sits where the language spoken is your language<\/em>
days punctuated by those small routines <\/em>
kitchen cupboards with the spices you need to cook a pan big enough for the family<\/em>
the locked door the shuttered window<\/em>
rattle of army trucks roared into the village<\/em>
it\u2019s not my home now people roam round it<\/em>
plan a future that doesn\u2019t include me.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"