Blue Passport

mother-daughter-love-sunset-51953.jpegBlue Passport


I was not made in Britain but Indian cotton.

Within the creases were my borders of creation.

My empire was to smooth in her kiln shaped from her clay.

I travelled a billion worlds before Britain was my violent harbour.


Stamped in my eyes were the waters of my Mother and Fathers sea,

hazel from the Stoke Elms and slate grey from the gouged Welsh quarry.

I was a blue passport on a panic Monday when my breathing was laboured,

a French car raced down roads that Irish hands made to the Indian hands of a nurse.


Take me away on a Brexit passport made in France and I’ll sing our anthem,

Ghost Town by The Specials or the peasant songs of Ingliterre,

It shall not matter to me when I see the sky turn violet,

It shall not matter to me when I see her breath make silver.


I have seen a blue passport when my Nan laid dead on a second-hand chesterfield,

her eyes were closed as she sailed back to her homeland with a slight smile.

Death does not make us queue and sun stamps sky in waxy reds.

Britain does not exist up there; in the nationless stars we are all welcome.

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