Arriving at my new island home
I feel guiltily unexcited
Fitting that I should arrive at the harbour
Where fortunes have been made
Jewels and gems that I neither need nor want.
Then too quickly lost in all that is modern, efficient
But cold.
The drizzle follows me where I go,
As if rainclouds come from my arms
And my body - like the sky
White alabaster and grey dirty marble.
This is not my home.
But the strange humming of the driver
oddly calming
Like the lyrical singing of the Quran reader
Calling out sweetly and full of longing.
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