A POEM FELL out of a folder marked Creative Writing that was handed to me by the co-ordinator of the Refugee Language Program. The author was a real poet,’ the co-ordinator, Lesley Carnus, said as she mused over the works in the folder. ‘By that I mean he was a recognised poet in his country.’

The poem spoke of a land where jacarandas sway in nights so soft they evaporate into an eternal landscape of the senses. Old habits die hard. The poet was so nervous of coming to attention that even with permanent residency, his poem had to stay unpublished. Still, over the years, the words have followed me and I have not been able to let them go: