My island home

Howling winds and dancing paddy in fields of green,
ragged clothes and pothead of a scarecrow are to be seen.
Wet mud sticks to your feet as you run along the stretching meadows,
sounds of locals singing carried by the wind echos.

A little stream flows down to the field to the large river,
ice-cold water touches your feet making you shiver.

An everlasting cold whispers in your ears,
as children stand on the road selling flowers to hind their tears.
A little temple stands on top of a hill,
with faith and belief, the air and hearts of people fill.

Maidens with wooden bags on their back,
pick little leaves one by one to go in your tea pack.

Leftover fortresses and palaces shrine under the glazing sun,
are ancestral treasures we have won,
coal-powered trains that run on rusted metal rails,
ridding on the crowded space makes it seem slower than snails.

Where the smell of spices never leaves the air,
and creatures take residence in the forests we all share.
Trees are filled with colours all year round from the flowers they carry,
take a walk around these streets of fun, and you will surely be happy,

these all of these bring me back to my childhood and remind me,
of just how beautiful my island home can be.