Sunday, 19 April 2015


My street smells of jasmine, rose & azahar,

Peppered with voices, from both near & afar,

A place where petals dance & trees gaily sway,

And serenading birdsongs make folk want to stay.


A place, where under sunshine, kiddies play & tease,

Housewives chat in doorways & men sit under trees,

It´s a street where neighbours wave & have time of day,

To greet all & sundry, before merrily, going on their way.


A place laundry´s washed, & by SeƱora´s hands squeezed,

Hung in sunny patios, where it´s dried & freshly breezed,

It´s where, from open windows, aromas deliciously escape,

Of home-made soups, stews, baked bread & spiced cakes.


My street is a friendly place, belonging to dying lost past,

Of hopscotch, skipping & of time that seems to long last,

It´s the place of a helping hand & the ever friendly face,

It´s a street that you can´t compare, with any other place.


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