Xianggang, my fragrant harbour -
You, of chao la, dimsum, and red junk,
of bulls and bears and the seasonal scares -
Sars and haze and avian flu funk ...
Where a writer - say what? of fiction?!
Is an exotic anomaly, to be politely indulged
As serious people with serious ambition
Ponder bonds and markets and who what fudged ...
From a literary backwater to the world’s lit capital -
Will be quite the flight, I am told.
Perhaps. What can a writer do in the Big Apple
but recreate - clumsily, recklessly, lovingly - in words ...
The world she lives in and leaves behind,
The world of frequent mist and forever rain,
Where I raised my child and four books did find ...
Xianggang, one day, I shall write you a paean.
©Manreet Sodhi Someshwar