I lie and think about the ships
that came to Port Elizabeth,
they brought my seeds here,
from Australia, Scotland and Netherlands,
Sailors, outlaws and a noble clan,
these are my liner travelers.
you come home, so tired –my sweet love,
go to sleep, while my thoughts are driftwood.
I look across our elevated view,
to the lights in Macassar where your lineage
spilled onto those beaches and your seeds were strewn
from a noble Kramat,
fisherman, tradesman, slaves and local strands of bushmen
this your design and direction.
I check on our sons, touch soft heads,
stroke their coppery skin, so unlike mine not quite yours
two sleeping, pouting golden treasures,
from the salvage of two dissimilar vessels along a familiar coastal strip.