Poem: Does it hurt where you come from?

 

We repeat what brings us close

to what we have lost 

to the burning of time.

Picking the corriander off the stem, 

the piles of green

smell of earth, oils pinched

and sun streams,

act of the ritual.

Comments on who's being the slowest. 

The arched backs, the eyes that skirt and flit

from neighbour to delicate sprouts 

conversation like Wimbledon

laughter- strawberries, cream. 

Ancient, repeated 

time is incense, space it's scent. 

We worship patterns, yet we forget we are doing so

during it.