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

a foreigner.




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