In Search
of rhythm
the old poems tumble out
of the mind.
Like the black cupboard
in the green wall
I would climb
to sample the darkness
through the shelves
I would crawl
opening boxes
entranced by the silence
and lulled
by the softness there
lie back and dream
I guess I may have wanted
to be one of them
know what it is like
that sweet little red tin box
with the blue bird on its lid
quiet sitting in some cosy tree
in the sun
and the rows of medicines
with their intoxicating smell
taking me half a world away
until I begin to recognise
the bedsheets stacked till
the dark triangular roof
standing full of the softness
of welcome
the world called home
calling out to me this is it
this is it
the real thing
the real universe
like a mother telling
her child
come
come home.
- Dominic Alapat
