Coming Home

by

Margaret Cracknell

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White canna lilies grow
Beside a shaded grove
Where tangerines
Hang golden in the trees.

The midday sun
Shimmers off the stone houses
And burns the soles
Of my bare feet.

The smell of salt and fish,
Straining bodies and loud cries
Pervade the water's edge
Where ferries come and go.

A church clock strikes.
In the house where I was born,
Through glassless windows
Shuttered against the heat
The sound of goat men and
Children playing in the street
Stops. The island sleeps. Siesta.

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