That is tainted with white blood and alternate stories of oppression,
Grown pale under the glare of the grey northern light
And is as red as the people whose composure reflects
The vastness of this place, when rushing in winter’s cold.
Where is the Black in me
That is in love with the cold and wild wet
Of these rolling hills, granite cliffs, fens and barren spaces,
That thrives under crooked stunted conifers and suffocates
On the dry arid plains.
Why does the Black in me
Feel as ridiculous, as the New Yorker in March green
Sulking in his Celtic-knotted Ratzkeller,
Who knows glass towers and ashy alleyways,
Over the beauty of Connemara, Connaught
And the imagined west side of the island.
Is the Black in me because
Every time a low buzz is heard crossing my path
An internal drum beats back to a place free from toil
That is equal, open and loving
Yet powerful in its awe and sublimity,
That in the quietest of voices I reluctantly
Call this place Africa.