Author’s note: yes, yes, I know, I’ve bent the definition of expatriate a bit. Deal or chill.
What is an expat?
An expatriate.
Someone who used to live
In the country where you still do.
What made them choose to leave?
Did they feel by their country wronged?
A soldier and his wife felt so,
So off to her native Australia they go.
Have some chosen to leave
In pursuit of fortune or fame?
Perhaps on this some will lay claim,
Leaving behind family and friends lief.
Perchance they’re in pursuit
Of a lifelong ambition;
They want dreams to come to fruition,
To this end they uproot.
Are there ghosts from the past
Leaving them aghast?
A change of clime
Could be most sublime.
I once considered making Australia my home:
I’d soak my feet in South Pacific foam.
I counted up my likely score
To enter through citizenship’s door.
My chosen profession gave me a boost,
I’d just need a job,
And the score for this yob
Would let him in Brisbane or Canberra roost.
Heeding pleas
Of family,
Their fears I allayed,
And stayed;
Allowing me to sometimes host
Family parties and social gatherings,
And in the cling and clattering
I lost the ghosts.
Now, for one, ghosts gather up ahead,
As news fills him with dread:
He learns from the backchat
That a dear one wants to be an expat.
©2015 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 