To Dover

for the refugees of Calais

They can see your chalk white whisper

along the shoreline, breathing with the waves.

Your name, foreign, yet sweet on their lips,
contains your dove-like wings, your promise of peace.

They look at you past the saltwater
of the strait, of their eyes,

with a longing to climb your gentle, green back
and let you carry them to safety.

As they stand at the edge of the world,
the night is cold as their bones.

Starlight bleeds through the tents,
revealing shadows of youth.

They dream of crossing the strait,
of having a place in this world,

of the possibility of light

at the end of the tunnel.