Comments about Sheena Blackhall
I can't imagine dying in this land.
The neighbours here have doors graffiti-red
‘Why are you brown? ' another pupil asked
‘I think because my folks are brown, ' I said
Out on our landing, someone's dumped a bed
I dream in Hindi. I don't understand
The baby words in English in my school book
At games, or dancing, no one takes my hand
I miss the smells of curry, frangipani,
The steaming chai at Delhi's teeming stalls
The cooking fires. I even miss the sewers
The thieving monkeys with their chattering calls
I miss the temple incense, the bright ...
I write in a cold climate.
There may be a moon,
There may not. There may be snow,
There may not.
I write from need, from no-need.
I write from joy from no-joy.
My words are stones,
Skimming ancient water.