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Poem	i have lost touch over the years with the hot africa inside me illness and all - i spread to root in the red earth siphoned the sun loved the black inflections of my eyes cut callow cords and found new forms felt free to fashion and freely raised orchards of feelings where the groves were rife with desiccated pens but all the time my ears insistent to the sounds of england harping at my back rehearsing self's return and i came back propelled against the growing grains inside - to wring futures from a skin the times had sloughed and now (eleven years since then) uganda's gone its own way into grief and many i must have taught amin has killed - i rush about my own concerns unable to erupt the loathing that consumes all rational response but lost to know the meeting point for what uganda opened out in me and what now lacerates its dreams uganda (victim to a white man's piece of chalk) now victim to a gloated bitterness in black your griefs have swamped the nile and i lounge here (a long way home) disturbed and pillowed by these words
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