From afar I have been
drifted, blown this way
like Sahara sand

rained down
on fertile soil
a grain of pollen

in the yellow border
around the puddle in the pothole
on this path

where you never go
and I walk to the café
every day

hoping for contact
in your language, but
only Jenny has time

to help shorten my
wait with hope
and sometimes someone

sits there, bored
drinking tea
next to me

They say it doesn't mean a thing
Because we are just mirrors
who kindly greet in return

But still, the baker knows my name
and the postman is happy
that I'm home

for the parcels
for the neighbours
Happy New Year

Looking forward, we keep heart
with good tidings, even though
they say it doesn't mean a thing

that in the rest of the year
calamities will smoke again
crimes and fear, what is normal

will get out of sight
even though you witness it every day
and that we will amuse ourselves again

with the ambulant judge to reinforce
peace with the right, and that is all
it means, they say

My friends live as neighbours
a second away from me
I can see whether they're at home

in the Wean Di
the blowing sand of drift
and fluctuating hope

the drama of our lives
as a game of skill:
I am I and I

is we, a world full
of bridges between kindred -
and the roads go into decline

Across the old, leak borders
we travel safely around
our filter of friendship

each with his own blowing nose
in self bought quiff and feathers
on the wings of We and I