The day my family fled we left house keys under the secret flower pot
With instruction for the gardener to stop by after the bombings ease
The fig and lemon trees are sturdy and strong but still need watering
My father’s orchids require gentle teasing, occasional moisture and mist
The day my family fled I forgot my journal beneath the floorboard
And under the bed I kicked off my velvet slippers
My mother instructed for us wear comfortable shoes and pack light
It is a long walk to the nearest United Nations rescue mission
My parents said we could return home once the bombings cease
I left without locking the bedroom door
And now I can’t remember what was written so long ago
Words and sentences on yellowing pages blown to smithereens.
My brothers and I play soldiers, hurling snowball grenades
in fierce defence of our imaginary fortresses in the woods
Not far from a city named London
Here oak trees and hornbeams stand steady and tall, bluebells drip sweet nectar
Above the playground helicopters roar, sharp blades ripping at sky and clouds
My father said it’s because a member of the royal family is visiting
a neighbourhood nursery where a new plant is being named after a princess.
We sit watching television in our tiny new house, thousands of miles from Aleppo
In faraway cities and towns ceaseless bombings continue
On screen giant war planes thunder across the heavens
Raining fire, metal shards and lightning on a stranger’s flower beds.
On a little plot of earth in the communal garden
of the small town outside a city named London
My father bends low, digging, trimming, pruning…
He grows plump tomatoes, shiny aubergines, sweet peas and pumpkins.
