By Kleopatra Olympiou
I grow into it.
The comfortable skin of
a foreigner. I notice a lack
of cheese, olive oil, oregano.
I have my toast differently.
I long for winter sun, life
besieging my closed eyelids.
A constant count of days, numbers,
months. Planes, flights,
kilometres. Not miles.
I hear talk of feet and inches,
think in the metric system,
blink blankly at copper coins.
I am here, my ear picks up the sound
of a magpie, I try out the taste of
the word daffodil, find strange
delight in uttering it, feeling it flutter
on my lips, attend
Evensong. In the heavenly magic
of a world that is alien to me,
I carve a home. Now I am here and
there, there and here, missing the sun,
the daffodils. I wait for tangy orange
blossoms, the fluid happiness of
honey. I walk by a line of evergreen
trees. We greet each other.
Soon I will go home again,
wearing the comfortable skin of
Illustration: Kleopatra Olympiou