A woman I’d never met said, ‘Go:
snow awoke me with its brilliant
neverwarm.’ I never found out
what she meant, but signed up for the
vanguard, more or less as instructed.
Going, we arrived in strange fields,
deep in memory, entirely alone.
Several months went by, after we
were sent from poor old Australia –
a care-worn decision, made by
folks we’d never paid the proper
care. Now they had the un-say,
they decided they wanted us out
and no remorse would sway it.
In that time, not once did I dream,
or not that I could recall on waking.
Every morning was as a dumb verdict
on events to come: only looking ahead
to the end of the day, no memory
of pledges to move forwards together,
a nation’s clichés brought to naught.
We were as broken; we were as scattered
to the striving winds; we were as made
by the one who would not love us,
the thing we could not have, the home
we could not inhabit. That loneliness
is the freedom with which we comfort us
down the dispersed ways of exile.