voice of the wind It isn't as if the wind cannot speak Sometimes in a whisper Barely grazing the bouganvelia purple on the porch sometimes in a breeze Still the creepers on the front door of our holiday cottage sway to its voice Creepers still can speak, but only to the foliage underneath And this evening, while I sit by the poolside In this warm African sunset The wind howls As the sea comes back home stories, trapped in the crushing waves Swish, swash, on the wearing down corals beneath our love nest white sand on this watamu shores The soft leaves of the bottle brush graze the back of my neck caressing my barely there tan The birds, they chirp the evening away they too, have stories to tell Memories, some sweet, some hot & raunchy, some...they will never tell And most, I will never know.... my heart longs to hear the tales of the wind from far away lands of the sea, swishing, swaying going and coming back home of the creepers on the front door...
Chronicles of a former Business Journalist | Believer of the African Dream | Mother | Lover of Life| Poet