Brick walls,
are they all the same?
Embracing , desperately seeking a home.
On a sidewalk a mother combs a child’s hair,
the sun disappeared with her dreams.
We place her in Arequipa, Tower Hill, Konya.
Is it more, is it less we have?
She is excavating for her something.
Plastic carrier bags of cotton buds,
block ears to the sound that pulls.
She clips her hair back and finds her fierce eyes.
We are her, recognised by worn shoes and a new dress catching the moonlight.


(Image: David Joaquin)