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.