Lilith Rocha, 78

When we left we never thought forever,

didn’t know how long we’d be gone.

A fine rain fell like farewell tears.

I kept calling the cat.  The emergency pack

was heavy, though I’d forgotten batteries.

The journey was jagged, our eyes wide

with panic.  Breathing like bellows, we climbed

round the mountain and down to the sea.

Where are the others?  What currency can

we muster for crossing the border with only stories

for passports?  The ocean’s road shivers under

a setting sun and all I know is this was

always going to happen.

We sit and stare at each other, someone

pours wine.  The wind shifts grains of sand in

little drifts like seeds scattering the edge

of the land, like us being blown to flourish or

perish in uncertain soil and doubtful welcome.

Someone starts singing, a song about home,

its mistral breeze, wallabies, tall pine trees…

But our home now is this moment, resting on air.

Breath feels very precious.