Rusholme
Bombay behind bleak curtains of rain and
Drizzle. But deep in the storm’s heart - a sari tinkles.
Shops Hindi-scrawled, with a single off-license squeezed in.
Offer me again sprinkles of rice.
Transport me on, a magical carpet to Bombay
(clue: it’s in Manchester.)

Remind me again why my ancestors, taking for granted
their Indian summers; tradition of dances; their beautiful golden saris…

they chose to swim - from Indian Ocean to Irish Sea
and left me stranded in this small island of Asia, in this
Small island.

Trapped unbelonging to the West or betrothed to
that magic we once called ‘Eastern Promise’; printed on each
tablet of chocolate-wrapped Turkish delight…

People flushed from buses, scud along the pavement
Eager for their dose of Asia, in the pouring rain.
And I, flushed in the cheeks from the redness of the day,
Follow them on the yellow-bricked road.