Displaced Persons
Helen Boris

(Bathurst, 21.5.49)

On that morning they descended
	upon the wilderness, out of town
	(oblivious of its marvels and legends—
	and hostility, maybe?)
Displaced and dispossessed,
	homeless,
	friendless,
	rootless,
they were not transplanted by caring hands,
but mercilessly torn out of the ground
and blown in by tempest.
	Helpless?
	Faceless?
	Hopeless?
No—how could they be,
when the sunsets were turning the
bush-covered cliffs
into molten gold,
when flocks of jewel-feathered birds
kept flying out of Ali-Baba’s cave,
bringing dreams of their wings,
and the life-giving foreign air
was cold—but free.