Motherland

As children we were always lost
wandering through the years looking
always looking; for a land to claim us
to feel roots tugging at our feet
for a place to own us.

And you would think
wouldn't you, that to come to a place and say
'here, I will live here', would be enough
to offer your industry, your faith, your dead
would be enough, but a land this ancient
has had it's fill and does not need any more bones.

So we drink the silty water, scrape our knees and hands
on granite and whinstone and bleed into the dark acid soil
we shape ourselves to fit the land, learn to believe the lie of it
chanting prayers beneath our breath.

How then can I consider bringing a child here?
to watch her stumble on the outcrops
turn her shoulders to the harrying wind
teach her to mouth the words in another tongue
and recite a history we have no part of.

And to watch - from the borders, from the school gates
with no claim to offer, no foundations for a tiny child to stand upon -
watch her turn - our knuckles in our mouths - without a backward glance,
her credulous hands carving out a place, burying us under the spoil.