Monday, 25 August 2014


The cars are sparse on the roads, duly recalled
from long past weekends; maybe it's just the roads -
marked in yellow and white, become smart and broad
with added swoops of new flyovers, malls new and old.

We retrace journeys, the same roads, the same gateways
but shut fast now, like the past, a shuttered, closed sea;
the off licence across morphed to more family
friendly stores.  Sure, there is no going away

but neither a return. The breeze stirs the dark in trees
as we walk on, the fingertips of our thoughts
just brushing against each other.  You may not
walk the same island twice, cross the same river valleys.

There is no homecoming, wherever you retrace
routes, return rivers, islands.  Home is not a place.


  1. Hi Nila .. having been out and about recently - the roads are jam packed ... but it's good to get back to an area I know my way round ... Home is not a place you're so right .. it's where the heart is ...

    All the best - Hilary

    1. Hi Hilary, roads this side are much emptier than I thought they would be, nice surprise! Good to know you are home.

  2. Just blogging around and found your blog. So glad to see you here blogging, so many deserted blogs these days. Thanks for letting me visit.

  3. Does this mean you're getting settled in your new place? I hope so. All I can see is the new journey and the new poetry inspired by it!

    1. It's great to see you back in action, Yolanda, can't tell you how pleased I am! And amen to new journeys and new poetry! :)

  4. You're right, Nila. Home is not a place. '...the fingertips of our thoughts
    brushing against each other.' Gorgeous.


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