The last of your memories may have escaped

The white paint on the gate is still the same

but the years have faded it along with my face

Walking down the road we followed the hearse

A son holding a mother’s hand

You both came from far away

Strong and mythical

Now frail and small

In my imagination I hear Shāstriya Sangīt

Drifting over the banks

of a mighty famous river

Mighty river

now a lake full of ducks

I can see the rugby posts and hear the steam trains

The slide as tall as before

Every time I approach with a note-book

the chances seem further away

Close my eyes and hear distant drums

The warm sun is calling me back to my ancestral home

©John de Gruyther 2014



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