At Nanyuki

At Nanyuki,
the equator runs below my feet,
and I think there must be a seam,
six lines of coarse stitches,
like a cricket ball,
holding the halves together,
but over asphalt and tamed bush,
through outlines of bare acacia trees,
there are smiles and tears,
and unspoken fears, Jambo,
he shouts into the cold wind;

cold like it was in Greenwich,
straddling the Meridian,
east and west like lovers meeting,
parting, daring old Kipling*,
somewhere here the silk roads ended
as oceans spilt secret routes
to gold paved streets
of yet another new world;

so many lines, to divide, to rule,
when we cannot command the whole,
drawing lines, against, across,
until there are tiny boxes,
matrix within matrix,
one for you, one for me,
the size of coffins,
our stories inside them,
double spaced in Arial 12;

and us, shackled,
bound in our cells,
marked and labelled,
toeing lines we cannot see,
splitting us, joining us,
but all we feel is the chill;
the air is cold here,
in our lonely rectangles,
like in Nanyuki,
where I stand,
where the equator cuts
the earth that has no seam.

* The Ballad of East and West, Rudyard Kipling