by HAZEL HALL
I am here a penthouse in carpeted splendour
and I long for the old house with floorboards that creak.
The views are expansive and sunsets breath-stealing,
and I crave for that flush of an apricot dusk.
This air con that’s running through the apartment
can’t match the cool breezes that blow through my window.
Though our room has been scented with attar of roses
how I wish for the perfume of wattles in spring!
We sleep uninterrupted and free from all pests
but I pine for the whine of a furtive mosquito.
On waking to silence each morning at six
I yearn for the greetings of blackbirds and magpies.
That vanity basin and marble-tiled shower,
cannot stop my need for an ancient, chipped bath
and the tray holding long-life creamers and teabags
no match for a kettle on a wood stove.
A huge shopping mall waits minutes away
and I ache for the small struggling store in our village.
I am living in privilege over the ocean
and I long for an old house I know is my home.