At the window the blank of a day
edges up from an unseen horizon.
A sudden tang of air shoulders space away
opens a door to a place long forgotten
where scent seeded the rich red soil
burnt and burst colours into day
and carries them in arms of memory
Seedbank
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Loadshedding at midnightLoadshedding at midnight
Sleep not willing to bed with me I rose and sought the soft folds of water. Eyes to the stars I floated in the cool white sent by streetlights over
A bird sangA bird sang
I met a migrant from a distant land who sang: in a garden beyond lies the wreck of a birdbath, pieces strewn across the sand, its slimed bowl cracked, of
meme
I approach the bed in darkness my head feeling happy for tomorrow there’s that coffee arrangement to look forward to and then…I slow need something there, search the cupboard, bare
“. . . scent seeded the rich red soil . . .”
Yes, more than anything, it is scents and aromas which can, in a trice, take me back to childhood. Woodsmoke is an especially evocative scent: I smell woodsmoke on the air (and it is winter here, and I often smell woodsmoke), and I remember with yearning the Africa of my childhood.