Crossings

The game begins: the green becomes
a muddy brown as boots blur touchlines.
Somewhere, there among the boys,
she finds a line she cannot cross
and leaves the pitch to join the others.

The edgy, endless ocean moves. Across
its length, its breadth, its past and present
people travel: hopeful, homeless.
Somewhere in the crossings and returns
the émigrés emerge, they change: we merge.

The station’s loudness crowds our senses:
people shout to one another, rush across
the concourse, run toward their homes.
You’re leaving; I am staying. Strange:
you’re standing still and I am moving on.

I cross the line, prepare to emigrate
but I would rather merge with you,
would rather stay with you at home.