Stansted
We weren't on a ship.
Immigrants don't arrive on
Overcrowded boats any more,
Swarming wet docks like rats.
It isn't 1920, and it isn't Ellis Island -
Nothing as romantic as a view of
Lady Liberty
To welcome us.
We flew into Stansted.
Not quite London.
but near enough.
At immigration we queue
Nervously and practise English in our heads:
Yes-thank-you-officer.
I know I am not at home
When talking makes my tummy turn
And rehearse what I say
Like lines from a play
Before opening my mouth.
At baggage reclaim
The laundry bag
Coasts around the carousel
And people look.
Someone points,
So Mama says, 'Leave it, Kasienka.
There's nothing in that bag but long
underwear.
We don't need them here.
We'll need galoshes.'
Mama is right:
The air in England is swampy,
The sky a grey blanket.
And the rain threatens
To drench us.
YOU ARE READING
The Weight of Water
PoetryThis is not my story. This is an actual book written by Sarah Crossan. All rights go to her. Armed with a suitcase and an old laundry bag, Kasienka and her mother head for England. Life is lonely for Kasienka. At home, her mother's heart is brea...
