By Carol Rumens
There once was a country… I left it as a child
but my memory of it is sunlight-clear
for it seems I never saw it in that November
which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.
The worst news I receive of it cannot break
my original view,
the bright, filled paperweight .
It may be at war, it may be sick with tyrants ,
but I am branded by an impression of sunlight .
The white streets of that city, the graceful slopes
glow even clearer
as time rolls its tanks
and the frontiers rise between us ,
close like waves.
That child’s vocabulary I carried here
like a hollow doll, opens and spills a grammar.
Soon I shall have every
coloured molecule of it.
It may by now be a lie, banned by the state
but I can’t get it off my tongue.
It tastes of sunlight .
I have no passport, there’s no way back at all
but my city comes to me in its own white plane.
It lies down in front of me, docile as paper;
I comb its hair and love its shining eyes.
My city takes me dancing through the city
They accuse me of absence, they circle me.
They accuse me of being dark in their free city.
My city hides behind me. They mutter death,
and my shadow falls as evidence of sunlight