Tell me Grace, how sweet’s the sound
of crispy notes and spinning pounds?
Insipid mouthfuls, nations blood,
stolen dreams beneath the mud.
Bone china on our mantelpiece
gentle with her, careful please.
Last ditch effort at success,
buried worries, hopes and stress.
Bred for markets, stocks and shares,
climbing ladders, circles, stairs.
Our life goal, to prime her well.
Saving Grace in Hong Kong hell.
I sit upon my cold refection
what’s hidden by dark circumspection.
Can I reach self actualisation,
brainwashed by globalisation?
Burdened by big expectations,
family riches, hope in question?
Can I be myself at least?
Can I fly, forget my feet?
Or will my anchor pull me home,
to skyscrapers, financial woes.
Possibly they’d understand
and cheer instead of reprimand.
Oily money, veiled success,
forgotten morals, intellect.
Humble gestures, not in halves,
not in business, not in cars.
Grace’s mind is filled with dreams,
gleaming from her wants and needs.
But there’s no breaks in mass progression,
no time to follow heart indulgence.
Money doesn’t grow on trees,
so family focus knots her knees.
–Ashley Rose Scantlebury