Ex-Pat Aubade Poem by John a'Beckett

Our Boeing Lot slips through the wincing snow
delivering us back to what we don't quite know
is when or where, but strangely full of purpose:
Poland, a corner soul, the lost mnemonic point
that must be lived and throbbing busily between
a keen about to be what is and would have been,
seductive, snailing forward, justly out of joint:
a spot in time let free for bobbing on the surface,
as we work a frost-bit fall and then again a night
of skill to take it all on our agenda, set it right.

Safe landing on the tarmac gets a grand applause.
Our fellow-passengers awake, blink in a pause
What will a new day bring? We bus back, blitzed
by faddish ads- the half-American bombardments-
loaded with guide-books, aids to Polish grammar
steps up to our shoe-box-size osiedle apartments
into a Warzsawa flashing hoardings of reklama,
fumble in pockets in the dark- the key that fits,
mount the high stairs, summoned by pigeon calls
almost saluting ruinous, graffiti-spangled walls,

find in a stop-start century, competing to be best:
an imperfect present that we put off in The West;
act out the ceremonies we once felt out-of-date:
toast-master speeches, ballroom dancing, kissing
women on the hand, arranging marriages, bowed
weddings, wakes; stand neat in three-piece suit
fill in our flawed jig-saw gist of pieces missing
kitted in long gloves, cut flowers at a roman gate
sparkling in moon-glittered and confetti, snowed
out to unravel the full puzzle picture of our lives.