I’ve got this peaceful kind of memory, in a city washed heavy in my blood. It’s like clotted soil where weeds daren’t spring, all pulped over and worn-down from each passing.
I sit and cradle the lowering light from the hilltop as caged dogs bark. I can’t tell if it’s for the day’s end or the spiced air, but somehow it feels like this is home. Kingston and Kandy don’t feel five thousand miles apart, but you know they can’t grow chillies in the fields past Guilford. Regardless, I bet my mother could tell you the tint of the soil in a blindfold, and maybe there’s something ancient in that.
I’ll die an Israelite for Ceylon, forever scooping that red-honey sunset as it drips from the sky. And I guess somewhere there will be dogs baying as I do.
Poetry was never on my radar as a kid, but now I seem to find some form of expression and peace in writing. I do so from North Leeds, UK and its leafy-green suburbs. I nestle somewhere between the bustling student bars and a slightly more distinguished commuter-belt. Perhaps there’s something of myself in that.
I can be found on @atari_poetry on Instagram, where I post my other work if you feel so inclined to stop on by.