I remember when those few of us split from Africa across the Red Sea.
We stayed on the beach, eating shell fish and stuff,
till we got too many, then another bunch of us split off,
and we headed for the next beach, fresh and new.
Eventually we beachcombed our way to the rest of the world.
I remember when I was little, splitting from my mum and family
to try out the next beach at primary school.
I made a home with friends there till the time came to move on again,
we split up and went on to secondary schools:
new worlds, different beaches.
I remember many splits in my life, and each new group,
was the right place to be, till the time came to go.
I remember trying to stay in touch, but the coastal trek
was too long, and the distances too great.
Now I find I am required to recognise
that my home is not a beach but this pattern:
I move in, I love and laugh, I learn and fish, I move on;
I move in, I sit and pray, I listen and speak, I move on;
I move in, I am, I am different, I have already moved on.