~ home spirit
October 2, 2018
Evening lounges across the harbour,
stretching off to the purple blue
horizon. Sailboats, having stripped
their masts lay scattered on a glassy
sea, like so many chess board pieces.
My island yawns before me in a Techni-
colour dream. Its image burning bright
green from clouds mirrored in the sky
+ blazing just for me. “When will I
return to my father’s land? Now that
I’ve grown accustomed to the life of
creature comforts, fast cold drinks,
and other such substance.” But closing
the blinds on these words, I let the
dry seeds of my desire burst forth.
To stand barefoot in the grass while
hanging clothes out to dry. To relish
the purity of perspiration amidst a
playful whish of breeze. To know
a type of friendship with fly swatters,
and the readiness of hand-fans cooling
the heat of an airy kitchen, brimming
in jovial yellow light. To be just off
the pedestrian path, a stone’s throw from
colonial poverty’s sultry trail. Where creaking
hand-carts of sun-dried wood and crusty
metal get pushed and pulled along roughly.
To hear wailing street merchants
peddle organic wares – straw brooms,
leathered-belts, concocted bottle drinks –
melodic in tones of brimstone and thunder.
To gulp greedily a glass of limeade dull in
touch when sticky doldrums land. To seek
out the Indian mystic fruit bomb by its tongue
round scent ~ rosie-green mangoes hanging
pendulously close ~ to pluck. To grieve such
taste-filled enchantment, as little lizards dart
lightening fast through the house.
August breathes along narrow roads. Shifting
past jutting hills, green creased river valleys, darkly
yearned for forests. To distant views of cresting
white horses, breaking on wind-tossed beaches.
Each scene anoints my eye and tangles my hair,
making me giddy for cooler mountain air.
From those heights I hope to find, a peace for
which I pray. Growing once more whole, whole
of eye and whole of limb - supple yet strong –
like arching sprays of a cherry coat plum.
Graceful daylight fades as my gaze roves southward.
Surfing over mad capped gingers, towering tulip trees
and fern lacy acres. Roaming through thick miles of
sugar plantations ending at the sea. This island dream
lingers on the evening tide where I cast me net
~ where I built me a bonfire at its tender wish.
Written by Hannah De Lisser