D E S H

The Thames runs in your veins

You say this is your land, 

It’s rolling green hills

And crumbling castles, 

Yet you and I 

Are made from the same 

Soft, brown clay 

Of the same earth -

And when you hug me 

The scent that rises 

From my bosom, reminds you

Of that warm kitchen 

In your cold suburban home -

Where crocheted doilies rest 

On the backs of sofas 

And sweaters are pulled 

Down over shalwar kameezes 

In muted pastel shades;

Pistachio, lavender, sun-yellow, field green, 

All the colours of the desh,

But toned down,

A camouflage into the humdrum grey.

I smell of the turmeric,

I’ve massaged into my skin, 

The rose water that lingers 

Over my pressure points 

The chilli on my breath,

The fire behind my words,

You inhale me,

Breathe in deep.

And when I walk away,

You’re left 

With an inexplicable longing 

For a home you’ve never known,

The imprint of last night’s moon 

Against today’s crisp autumn sky