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Bourda

Bourda Marvel again at the market stalls singing the earth’s abundance in the heaped-up homegrown freshness of their own vernacular favoured names. Not Aubergine but Balanjay Not Spinach but Calaloo Not Green-beans but Bora Not Chilli but Bird-pepper And not just any mango but the one crowned, Buxton Spice, Still hiding its ambrosia in the roof of my mouth, still flowering like the bird-picked mornings on the branches of my memory. Grace Nichols Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Passport to Here and There (2020)

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