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 Señora´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.
No comments:
Post a Comment