My London is where I am.
Comfortable city where we feed birds
and worry about the diminishing bees.
At my desk struggling for words
I would rather be watching the
tree fern unfurl its newest frond or
the woodpecker puncture the birch
with his rataratarata, while the
parakeet, foreign and raucous,
swoops and shrieks. Green wing
and scarlet beak how you bring
my Bombay back. In a flash I hear
crows and the hootootoot of cars in
gridlock, cricket commentary blaring,
and the clatter of stainless steel from
the neighbour’s kitchen. I can smell the
familiar monsoon fug and feel the discomfort
of air conditioners. The heat rots everything
and the fridge is never big enough.
Uncomfortable city, bigger than life itself.
I dream between continents.
Work can wait, lunch can wait.
For now I simply want to knit moment to
moment, city to city, the two halves of my life.
English