THE RIGHT CURRENT
After two decades in captivity, the loggerhead turtle
wandered the coastal waters: Robben Island, Namibia, Angola.
A tracker on her leg, no scientist could grasp her intentions.
Home-bound, she must have been looking for just the right current.
I had been wandering for much longer when I met you:
Algate East, Notting Hill, King’s Cross. You and I
were foreign, untracked, unbonded. Oyster shells
on a tray pushed hastily to the door like wrappers,
or outfits, it was in Strete that you first
asked me how I felt. In the print on the hotel wall –
an immigrant artist on the shoulders of his slender wife,
which is neither a joke, nor a symbol of financial
dependance, but a metaphor
of how love can save.
This is how I felt. I still feel it
but so much stronger.