No vehicle for this

though picture still a ship’s rocking berth,

depths of darkness, waves cresting with the whiteness

of clouds in moonlight nudged by the nose of a jet.

Imagine being in that too, rising from sails unfurled

to find engines rumbling, a compressed hum

with wings on either side, each a Dorsal

for that metal-encased sky whale.

Yes, better to grasp for something as peaceful,

even being hidden in a lorry or jeep

under blankets, crates of fruit,

napping in a pretend game

without apprehension of check points,

chase scenes, the seizing of papers,

bullets and a kneeling before their cold send off

from behind.

That’s how vulnerable this is truly,

openness, an outing, the walking skin itself

vigilant for going on is the only thing to do.

Migrant, ease fear by remembering gardening

and each backstreet, covert field here

just more acreage to complete tasks in:

weeding, say, between brief rains,

an invigorating breeze changing direction,

this course, that, of wet curtains sweeping,

each silvery bead in descent cooling air

while soil steams.

Some pressure is being let out,

something broth-rich fragrant

as vegetables in a pot,

while above there’s an uncovering of blue swathes

clearing the head in buttery sun when sweating

effort takes a break from yanking tough tufts

to let edible stalks, leaves, berries,

shells, pods, kernels, casings

breathe, breathe, breathe…

Migrant be there, moment to moment, step

after step, Belief tilling life from the toiling

with the faith of a mustard seed

that harvest will come one fine safe day.