of the immigrant
someone else's bed,
He was born and bred
In the Third World
A home so beautiful
That soothed right to the soul
When Gertie came in
To work today
She was much less weary
And far more gay.
Let us not speak of those days
when coffee beans filled the morning
with hope, when our mothers’ headscarves
hung like white flags on washing lines.
The sharp keel harrows
The sea's fallow.
Astern the seagulls hover
The shock-white memories
In the detention centres of the queen’s kingdom;
There we sat down, yea, we wept;
When we thought of home.
And we sang a sweet song of freedom;
still standing waist deep in waters
fears crossing illegal to Europe to
unknown veiled future uncertainties
Must be difficult, to break all ties
To separate the truth from the lies
Of your comforting cradle of birth
Toward a far land, set forth.
The clock is set on 4 am
The sheets kicked off the bed
An anthem screams on the t.v. screen
There’s an ache all in me head