in the winding down of dark?
beseeching voices carried on the breezes spire high
across the hot and dusty-coloured town
to the cool indifference
of the white-frothed sea.
pasta on the stove, mama squealing,
do you see the mouse that scuttles
like eliot’s mind across the floor?
feel the violence of the family in its closeness,
its tenderness in the slamming of a door.
and the prayer goes up at seven in the morning,
meandering with the smell of fresh-baked bread.
the dog winks his nostrils, barks awake,
the passionate schoolboy
throws a plane from his window, yawns.
and he hears their whispers,
distant in the past,
touches his crucifix,
swept to his knees
by the voices on the breeze.
Photo of African Queen by Belinda.