East West Divide 2.
Somehow in harking I find a connection.
Old work to new.
The somehow within me, I tried to explain,
has found a new home in this travelling.
Lawn sitting in music field.
Chess and sunshine.
The white skin sticks.
Black and white pieces parade openly,
while the subtle , no touching, game plays around.
Just language? I wonder, or more than that.
Caught in a web of my own choice making,
the repeated West in the book that I bury myself in.
Soft pages flick around and suddenly…an alien sound.
Jerking my head out I am sucked into the reality of other peoples’ conversation.
Sitting in shade talking.
The Western voices tainted somehow
in the art of forgetting where I am.
Not being where we are.