There’s no return to the womb
The ancient trees form a giant bower in the sky,
as I walk beneath the verdant splendour.
Bright green fruit hang off dark wooded mango trees,
but no children with catapults attempting to bring them down.
The orange blooms form a fiery shroud –
the Flame of the Forest stands out like a tall poppy.
The soothing Neem is a benevolent one,
whose tiny blossom will soon turn into fluorescent berries.
The Persian Silk sheds pink and white frothy umbrellas,
much too delicate to embellish a cocktail,
but pressed between pages, it preserves a precious memory.
The mighty Tamarind bears sour fruit,
resembling brown broad beans bursting with dark pulp
and uneven squares of mahogany seeds.
I imagine rolling dice under the shade of one such tree,
where cow dung has helped cake the ground,
and the balmy sea-breeze cools us down.
I’m certain that this is where it will all fall into place,
as I yearn to be enfolded into this leafy bosom.
But the game of dice is one of war,
of attack, conquest and victory,
heartbreak, war and anguish.
People from my past float by,
some quiet, some flashy in their success,
others full of fervent zeal.
The sun is up, and the heat is strong.
There is no hiding from it,
there’s no return to the womb.