Thinking of Home

The laughter of children playing in the garden
sounds so distant this afternoon.
I count the twigs missing from my favourite tree-
Autumn spares nothing.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet;
an old man looks up as if he has been hurt.

I think of home, of heat and dust-
Dreams I had hung out in the courtyard to dry.
I’ve been waiting for someone
to send me a handful of sunshine
wrapped in an envelope.

Friends and siblings, in the prime of their lives
are too busy to write.
And my mother, I know
is too old to make it to the post-office.