Night Crossing
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.