The unknown of field and coppice
Of unruly and murky terrains, 
Of ordered rows and scurvy
Now streaming in our veins. 
Strong fear of grey-blue distance, 
Brown streams and expansive dull skies
I know, but cannot share it, 
My love is otherwise. 

They came upon a midnight dreary, took my father weak and weary,
Executed him that night in the name of a curious but forgotten war —
While we hid, our confines trapping, our minds constantly lapping,
grappling with our futures, we started mapping — our pathway to that shore.
'Our future is not here’ we muttered, and we set sail for that shore.
This is our only hope, nothing more.

Silently and gladly to the reefs of Christmas Island
the convoys of asylum seekers come;
at night they cling to the boards of wooden boats that roll
and list in heaving seas.

Stately cruising liner sailing into Naples
Laden with the wealthy, leisure on display
With a cargo of sightseers,
Buffet food and bubbly
Deck games, cinemas and educative tours.

I know it's full of split peas, lentils, stars but
But the pressures under which it cooks
How it falls apart if water gets in, or starves
That we might stitch its physics
Together like felt, a false precarity.

What happens to a dream of asylum deferred?

          Does it flare up
match struck, petrol poured?

Or bloat like a man –
tossed overboard?