Diaspora Child

Across the sea there’s a place for me,
In the heat of the White City,
In the eucalyptus trees, their scent
earthy and crisp and familiar.
In the sound of cheap flip-flops
slapping the dusty ground,
In the blue plastic bag filled with fresh figs,
In my grandmother’s arms,
whose eyes speak the same language as mine,
whose soul lives in my soul.

Sometimes I wake up
unsure of which tongue I dreamed in.

Perhaps in another life
Dad stayed with his childhood,
Perhaps I never became this cacophony of cultures,
A heart pulled across continents,
Neither from here nor there.
Oh traveller,
Oh tired voyager,
Know that there is a place for you,
Across the oceans and in the mountains
which echo your cry to come home.