Little city my city           in rustic splendour
under terracotta eaves           a wing-boned roof

With your four totems
a bed of planks on which we have slept

How cool beneath us     aging in the night
this wood’s stern air

       Even the drowse of soot is home
             even the thrum of pig bristles

lulls    rustling in the dark    while the dirt floor
primps and waits

Fifteen years in exile    still every room harbours
a lingering scent of war

This house that      empty      grieves like a widow
Ribs and skulls sleep soundly in the soil