Colony: Photography and poem — by Miss Fiona Wong, Division of Arts and Languages

How shall I tell you about the colony
when it began or when
it ended – or has it?
I came from a remote village
in a boat I travelled down the river
which name I could not recall – Mekong or Victoria –
I saw palm trees morphed into concrete erections as the wind sang songs of goodbye in my ear
chanting hymns of missionaries in their robes and crosses
the moist, fertile earth opened
toward the sun, hardened
into churches and towers of brick and mortar
I listened to the breath of the dust dancing lightly
on asphalt dried, docile, determined
to separate from the river
as roads widened into the sapphire sky
cars with their dazzling headlights flow and diverge
I dissolve in the warm, homey scent of diesel,
rotten cabbage, and overcooked onions –
the night air condenses and stretches
through the beating rhythm of foreign music I recognize my spectre
among many on porches and sidewalks
their laughter distant, meandering, moist
like the dream of Victoria, or Mekong,
only traceable in the shadows
between pillars of civilization