Sometimes, the sun pours through the clouds
like sand through a child’s hands in the wind.
Each grain flying west, east, south, north,
redefining what it means to be at home.
Finding a new family and a different place to belong
Eventually, landing somewhere between familiar and unknown
Where hands outstretch for help and home
As metal coins weigh down rough palms bitten by the cold.
It’s not this cold where they’re from,
but life is harder.
Hard, as a focus on your future instead of the trivial things that pass,
or nostalgia that speeds by on train tracks in your daydreams.
The sun pours through the clouds like a go-to image of Revelation
when the trumpets sound and Jesus descends a red carpet as promised, –
you’ve cried too many nights and gone through too much to not make it.
Because, you have a mum there and a friend too.
The journey is long and you glide on individual beams of fairy dust,
each hearing a different chord on a harp,
each looking forward to seeing your father,
each likening it to real life.
And the sun pours, a malleable stream of silver-gold.
Is that so real?