Sunset

As English as the pied noir is French,

I still feel the hot dry breath of the simoom,

which gave me the bad fairy's curse

under the shining, desert moon.

I have photographs,

young parents, proud outside

a bungalow, Indian word

for a home under North African skies.

These memories are not mine,

second-hand knowledge as family anecdotes.

And yet,

As Scottish as Scott's romance is real,

I still feel the arm-hairs rise with the pibroch,

they'll play at my father's funeral

under the drizzling, northern sky.

We had a servant,

young woman, proud inside,

Amah, misnomer, Indian word

for a maid on the Lion's Island.

These memories are yet mine,

second time lucky to remember these.

And yet,

here I am, as South as I have ever lived,

I still hear the calling, alluring sepia life

we lived in the ruins of empire

over the shining, dreaming sea.