Edwin Thumboo

There are two countries here: 
One securely meets the eye; 
The other binds your heart.  

This is Perth, and yet Malacca. 
Outside, suddenly spring arrives 
In many wild, surprising flowers. 
But no chempaka, no melor 
Show that beauty of the heart. 
You have lost more hair, though 
Your spectacles perch as usual, 
Looking quizzical, slightly anxious.  

Beyond King's Park, the Swan 
Whose neck nestles among vineyards, 
Ministers to your dreaming home 
To which I go again, in ceremony, 
Remembering... your ukulele 
Mastering the restless crabs, 
Sunset upon the brow of Panteh 2; 
Our shared tobacco; images of  

Heroic days, court and kampong;
That great Tranquerah mosque, 
St Paul's Hill, Sam Po's Well, 
And other abodes of our gods. 

But here the roads are happily
Waltzing with Matilda, leading 
Through miles of bush to Laverton, 
Abandoned mines, receding purple hills.  

And as you hear the recurring 
Soul of Voss adventuring Ayers Rock, 
The Dream-time, purifying deserts, 
Shore, sky and hinterland are yours.  

But you return to Heeren Street, 
Ancestral rooms, intricate histories, 
Starting with a distant fracture 
Of law, of order one quiet noon  

Along uncoiling Amoy Streets, 
Where the migrant, restless spirit 
Took passion to an alien land. 
You feel a deep possession. 
Seven generations of the blood 
Have stirred into the earth, 
Gave sinew, fought fevers. 
Held down swamps, added 
Fertile patterns to the land,
Made the dragon speak
The brown language of the 
Constant, Southern winds.  

After the riots and the edicts, 
You cried in the days of blight.
To leave again, after seven generations,
You must know so bitterly, 
Is surely to return.