She sing songs her parents sang
watching the seagulls plague
a tractor and plough sowing
seeds for a future crop.
Witches’ clothing are strung
across the spindliest
black branches of a fig tree,
as she approach the house
of her childhood, the field
where innocence could play.
Memories they fly through
her thoughts like a thrush
flying through corridors,
its wings not touching the walls.
And from this thought leads:
to an emancipation which,
bordered by modesty,
can be wrapped into a blanket
and put beneath a bench,
in keeping for a latter day.
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