The Racing Driver (2007)
I found an Indian lorry driver
or maybe he found me,
flotsam and jetsam,
racing the waves of a wet summer
washed up by the day’s tide
onto flock wallpaper,
perched at the same bar,
dried refugees from a lost race
cut off by seas of change.
He told me his life was full of pigeons,
started to race at the age of ten
when he was known as the kid from the wog shop.
Yet he laughs now, above that sort of thing,
eyes wide as wings.
His children sing the distances
between borders and win.
They glint glory in his bright bead gaze,
free to beat its own flightpath home
without crossing water.