Saudade

 I miss the bustle of the kitchen.

Dinners that would soften even the hardest of days,

The heightened hiss of a fat cod hitting the frying-pan,

The oil spitting and popping as the skin browned and crisped,

On the table, cured meats, waxy cheeses and sweet bread,

Inviting a togetherness that was our own.

 

I miss the quiet of my room.

Each night, I could shut the door on the world,

And hold a space that was my own,

The bed laden with thick sheets that smelt like home.

The pillow that carried my dreams,

The night’s breeze that slipped through the slats of my wooden shutters.

 

I miss the colour of the garden,

Thick velvet petals that reached up to the sun unknowingly,

Spread wide open, they welcomed the light,

The pinks, purples and reds, bleached and banished,

As the heat rose, the grass yellowed and dried,

Replaced by a desert, scorched with memories.

 

I miss the village square,

The faint pitter patter of the fountain,

Saturday markets, Sunday bells,

Late into the night,

The chit chat and kinship of the people,

Plentiful cups of wine poured and shared.

 

I miss the summers when the heat was humane,

Now, the smell of burnt rosemary and thyme fills the air,

Like incense memorialising a life lived by many.

Noone could stop the war that was waged,

The fury of the fires that razed each home,

We had our chance, we made our choice,

Until finally, all we could do was run.

 

I miss the time when we had a chance to change direction.

We fled the fire, but we cannot escape the Earth.

Entombed in our own ignorance,

We sear lives and homes,

While making desperate attempts to undo

What can’t be undone.

 

I miss the land when it wasn’t stained.

As blazes blacken, and blood runs,

The fires rage on,

The carcass of each home,

Torched of their memories,

Saudade, saudade.