The Last Postcard

but the last postcard
had come thirteen months ago,
from Budapest,

here the sky is crushed muslin
and the endless river rhymes in its sleep;

and books had turned weary on their shelves
having held their secrets too long,
dust choking every last word,

pyramids hold up this cloudless Cairo sky,
the past shimmers in the heat waves, just beyond my reach;

while waiting has a spurious smell,
the sour reminder of milk
left out too long,

pink is the fragrance of Osaka’s sakura blossoms,
their colour is that of a slow smile that almost reaches a moist eye;

not knowing is the knot,
at the bottom of an empty well
strewn with hope shaped stones,

the crackle of fire, the hiss of empty water bags,
who can tell what lies beneath the flood of Saharan sand;

because yearning still tastes of defeat,
and silence is the enduring midwife
of epiphanic pain,

everywhere, something feels like home,
everywhere, something feels further away;

the last postcard
was thirteen months old,
a new crease
separated cloud and water.

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