Sunday, 4 August 2013

Home Series (1)

I was honoured to do some take away poetry for the refugee council in July. Some ladies told me they miss the West Midlands where they came from. We spoke for a few minutes and then I had to come with a poem on the spot. This was the end result.

The air is different here. Nothing stifles
silence adorns my neck like a choker
just tight enough to make me breath
in the air like the first time. At the height
of this hill my soul is as high as the top
of the sky, the leaves dance uncontrollably
in a rhythm of their own and I join in
just let their beauty wash over me.

I know a place like this
Where the lilt of the accent
Spins me deeper into my own skin
And the faces are all mine
With generations apart.
When home is a place
Too far away to hold me
I think of Sunday afternoons
Around grandma’s table
Where laughter exchanges lips
Like a relay and bodies double
Over like trees swaying in the wind
As memories are re-established
And sweet tasting food makes its way
to the part of my body where laughter
was just born. Those days are in my heart.
They are air that rejuvenates
when I need to find my way back home.

©2013 ToluAgbelusi

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