To my son, in exile

Do you want to hold my hands 
while the rain is shiny and hard, 
unable to occlude all the sun’s parchment? 
It will remind you of the land you carry 
with you, one part of you that has flung you far. 
It will tell you of the cormorants that stay and swivel, the 
bulging frogs in fullblown courtship, the 
careening peacocks who once danced off camera. 
Do you want to listen to my songs of heavy joy 
when a mogra newly fresh as ice cooks 
up a feint of fragrance, an artefact in desolate garden?