The rooms of imagination
smell of rain
The windows open to a slice of left behind days
Chipped tales on discoloured walls,
a clothesline of pale blue, dull brown,
stale white swaying in the warm breeze,
the chatter of spices and voices from the kitchen,
summer holidays and hopscotch afternoons.
The shadow of parents, their lives akin to the
relentless march of red ants to feed the colony
or the shady jackfruit tree – a stern sentinel.
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