She stands on the eastern most tip
And faces the Atlantic
Grey tears on her face
Join the cold brine at her feet
Home is somewhere in that direction
But she cannot get any closer to Europe
Than this grey shore.
The wind whips her into submission
With every lash it says
“Turn around, turn around
Your home is at your feet now”.
This place is kind and welcomes her
Why then does she weep for Ukraine?
And the rape of a region that was once
Mere lines on a Map?
Why does she harbour feelings for filthy soil?
Bloodied and muddied with the bodies
Of families, relatives and ashes of homes
Where concrete crumbled like cottage cheese
Is sprinkled upon the torn dreams of another time?
And yet she touches the Atlantic surf
Hoping that some contact is made
Upon another shore
That somehow the tiny drops of water
From here
Will travel across the Atlantic
The Mediterranean
The Aegean and Marmara
To trickle into the Black Sea
And tell the tiny grains of sand
Over there
That someone in Nova Scotia stands
On this shore
And for no reason at all, still cares.
