Remnants Of Victoria

Remnants of Victoria

‘I do not feel a stranger…as it is for the vivid colour and movement of its densely packed life and for the beauty of its scenery…’

Queen Elizabeth II, 1975

Two, three years ago, you said,

‘The source of life will move in cycles’,

with the map of the whole world in your grasp

island away from the Harbour.

On your tongue, I said

that ‘Here, like now, there’s nothing special’,

compared to the meanders of yours

all belonging to the same source.

She changed. Far from what it belongs.

You would know. I never saw.

Near the rivers of foreign castles, I lie

with my tongue tied, with statues of strange saints,

the taste of white chalk clung with the winds of cold rain

once dwelled and rose from the Pacific.

You belong me, she says.

I can taste it all. Perhaps I can taste it all.

A time ago before I got to the sea

the drops of the green ferries

once trampled by Queens

drumming canons over burnt poppies

came back to your river, to my cup,

put onto my platter, a poster, a street, a shoulder, bus stop.

You claim her kaleidoscope lights. I paint her

Bright yellow, Glory, Smoke of the Dead.

You named her first, how it slips from my tongue,

how the People amended it with their words.

The water fills both my cups nicely.

I emptied my story, gulped tea, cycles buried

under feigned glamour and Blood Stars, eating up my land.

How would I know when it comes back to me?

How shall I see what all they have seen?

This is cage, the People sing.

Dwelling old rulers, entering new harbours.

They are drifting. I’m just watching.

All that remains now is the rain. Here, you lie, she says.

I lie nowhere now. A glitch. A nobody,

pining away the century waters that ripped

apart two dreams.