She sounds like Africa
From the beating of her beads along her braids
To the rattle of hoops and bangles worn
And intonation of words as they flutter as a dole of doves.
But she was raised in Europe
With the nuance of talk and distance she keeps;
Sun rejected by her umbrella, she loves winter
And how it colours her skin as fire its coals.
She fears her kind
Who stint in ancient practice, live by difficult means,
Enjoy the fruits of their labour with the poison it bears
'Rumours of our anarchy'. So she fixes her purse to the stars.
She’d only sojourn the African homestead
When five stars shine over her mother’s house,
Where her purse can purge and censor the sight of squalor
With the safety net of silk-threaded hairs around.
This is the Eurafrican dilemma:
Culture continues whilst the ties tear.