Until I Read Anne Frank's Diary, I

This Is Not A Full Circle. It's Life Carrying On. It's The Next Breath We All Take. It's The Choice We Make To Get On With It.

The Land Itself, Of Course, Was Careless Of Its Name. It Still Is. You Can Call It What You Like, Fight All The Wars You Want In Its Name. Change Its Name Altogether If You Like. The Land Is Still Unblinking Under The African Sky. It Will Absorb White Man's Blood And The Blood Of African Men, It Will Absorb Blood From Slaughtered Cattle And The Blood From A Woman's Birthing With Equal Thirst. It Doesn't Care.

What Is Important Is The Story. Because When We Are All Dust And Teeth And Kicked-up Bits Of Skin - When We're Dancing With Our Own Skeletons - Our Words Might Be All That's Left Of Us.

In Ways I Don't Entirely Have The Words For An Experience, Thought Or A Lesson Isn't Real For Me Until I've Written Down.

I Always Knew Mum Loved Me - Tough, Look-after-yourself Love, As If She Knew She Wouldn't Always Be There.