Refugees

Refugees are periodic

like daffodils.

Biennial or triennial or

recurring at great intervals

unlike daffodils

they aren’t expected

or recognized when they’re back.

Remember, R, two decades ago,

when we saw those nervous fairy-tale

women near Victoria,

some tired, with infants, irises

like lapis?

We’d never seen anyone like them.

We were in our thirties and easily thrilled.

They’d come out of a history book

but were ungainly and insistent

like those who find they can’t find their way home.

They had enough English and gumption

to pursue you and me for money.

We dove into a black cab

and went to Highgate to have lunch with Dan.

(All of us migrants; our appointments

ascertained on the phone two weeks before.)

Months later, we saw them again

selling flowers at a traffic light.

They were still unreal, like disbanded

dancers in their head-scarves

peering opportunely into car windows

or sitting, bored, with a child on the kerb.

Bosnia was on everybody’s lips

and old words like Balkanisation had made a comeback.

Then, once more, they lost their modishness

and urgency.

The women must have found new clothes or

gone back home

or found somewhere to stay.