Like a Beacon
In London
every now and then
I get this craving
for my mother's food
I leave art galleries
in search of plaintains
saltfish/sweet potatoes
I need this link
I need this touch
of home
swinging in my bag
like a beacon
against the cold
Grace Nichols (b. 1950)
Home is mum's cooking. Or father's long monologues. Or Shanghai's never-ending interrogation. Or the easy banter of old friends and the memories of places that you've once studied, played, or just stoned at.
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