Cartref - From the Land of My Fathers to the Land of Drought and Flooding Rains

My Australian passport

arrived.

Blue.

Expensive.

For the first time,

I held

two homes

in my hands.

From the land of my fathers

and Cwm Rhondda,

to a land

of drought

and flooding rains.

I still remember

mae hi’n bwrw glaw.

Somehow

“it is sunny”

never stuck.

I’ve become fluent

in UV indexes and

SPF.

One coastline

invited me

to look

The other

invited me

to dive in.

Sheep roamed

the hills.

Looking like

dinner or a jumper.

Wildlife here

reminds me

I’m just the visitor.

A rugby player

from the village.

A singer

from Pontypridd.

“Batman was Welsh,

y’know.”

“Our PM could

neck a beer.”

Give us someone

from our town

who makes it big,

and we’ll claim them

forever.

We take each other

with a pinch of salt.

Not sport.

One has mastered the

art of hopeful disappointment.

The other has mastered

the art of shocked disappointment.

Warm ale beside

a pub fire.

Cold schooners at

the beach.

My body

remains

skeptical

of both.

A language born

from poets,

impossible consonants

and song.

To “yeah, nah”, “nah, yeah”,

and shibbee alrites.

One is small.

Not in humour.

Not in song.

Nor personality.

The other big.

In every conceivable direction.

Two passports.

Two homes.

A passport

doesn’t tell you

who you are.

It simply reminds you

of the places

that you’ve already been.

Home

isn’t the place

that replaces another.

It’s the place

that quietly

makes room

beside it.