Spending eight weeks in my homeland after
three decades of living abroad, it’s great
to connect with my tribe, though my birth town
seems like a craved love affair that did not
happen. New high rise towers and freeways
stud suburban streets, virtual strangers,
like an almost lover I’ve forgotten
I wanted, not touched, tasted or tested.
It brims with delights – a bustling harbour,
graceful bridges, wildlife, national parks,
shimmering opera house, tree-lined streets –
but not for me. My melancholic heart
is lost in the gaps, confused, uninvolved
and the bloodclot knot remains undissolved.