My Kind of Town

My Kind of Town You said I’d find my freedom There, where the cliff crags slip into the dead thud of ocean: Not yet kindred Not yet able to place Or misplace me. I lost my children to the rain There, In that place In that drowned sorrow. A leap of faith to fall Into the arms of the screeching rocks Your abyss Your farmland With only the company of cows and crows, The greens that hurt the eyes, And the bellowed creek of the townsfolk Blank-faced and silent as your northern hemisphered Grey suits and Sunday-sausaged brunch. It was not your fault Or theirs. But the pull of the sun And the cupped hands of indigence Called me home: Swallowed and goosed To the south. And here, The dry-mouthed moon Looks after my people Cloaked in poverty, yet singing Colourful mourning songs In this, the callous town I call my own.