This language sounds like mountains,
tastes like the flowering of gorse,
looks like nothing from my earth.
It is not green. It is not damp.
This language is spoken by despots,
is spoken by young women who chew its vowels,
is spoken by boys with sure aim,
is misunderstood by all.
This language is not my birthright.
This language is all I have to eat.
Jo Waterworth dropped out in the 1980s to be a Peace Camper and spent seven years living on the road. She has been writing poetry since then and lives in Glastonbury, Somerset. She is currently a mature student studying Creative Arts at Bath Spa University.