As a child, home to me was a static space
Of red bricks and moss covered doors
So tall that my button eyes struggled to see their tips;
Of coconut trees romancing thunderstorms
And my face cupped in little hands;
Humming and writing and humming,
Poetry and music – their love child;

Home was my grandmother’s prayer chants,
And sandalwood scented hallways,
As the rickety radio played along,
Some long forgotten song
About orange mornings and chirping birds,
Tolling bells and holy offerings;

Bit by bit, I collect home in a box;
Scribbles on misted windows, leaky paper boats,
Foot prints on moss, monsoon songs,
Grandpa’s stories, blooming dahlias,
The cardboard doll house,
Tongue burns from ginger tea,
To carry them all with me to adulthood
Only to realise that time is a notorious thief.


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