Monday, 18 October 2010

Our Labours

I can’t communicate to you in my mother tongue
I can’t prise open your eyes and make you see
I’m your child not your mother, a sister not a brother

A bumbling bee with nothing to do but write poetry;
I’ve cherry-picked your lips, your taste in music
But left you your tongue, your profanity to shout at the TV.

We could have been Hera and Heracles, minus the eyes
As under the violet sky I’m neither colour-blind nor mad,
Just as thoughtful as you Dad.

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