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
