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MALUS SYLVESTRIS. A POEM BY DAVINA QUINLIVAN

Malus sylvestris. A poem by Davina Quinlivan

Mother tongue, once in a London town.

Back of the bus, we practise English with a cup of tea, Radio 4 and Merchant Ivory.

Code switching incessantly, becomes normal, invariably.

Words, sweet and sour in our mouths, passing the time with our rhythms.

Codes within codes. Clothes, even swapping those.

I still remember your school girl fight. Expelled, for what I don’t know.

I cried when you left, but now you have your own kids and I never write.

Heritage. Seeds. 

Orchards,  I tend to now,  just to catch the scent of their buds and their boughs.