| Swifts and swallows leave | – | while I grasp for memories like |
| fruit | – | remnants of home |
| riddled with holes | – | my baby cools in my arms |
| dripping fermented juice | – | the milk from her mouth |
| sweet | – | sticks under my fingernails |
| under blushing trees | – | the guards, with eloquent guns, demand my coat |
| those that can't leave expect a cold winter | – | they smirk at my battered sweetbox, |
| with its few hopes | – | inside are smuggled postcards of thatched houses |
| and promises | – | of English orchards. |
P. T. Diep is a doctor living in Norwich, UK. He is exploring life, death and other transitions through writing, with the support of his wife who is much more talented. His poetry has been previously published in such places as flashquake, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Poetry News (The Poetry Society UK). He came second in the Hamish Canham Poetry Prize 2008. He is the editor of The Cleave poetry webzine and will be publishing The Cleave Anthology in Spring/Summer 2009.