Home is a cafe of poetry and such
And caring friends who often lie
Just to keep in touch
Open windows with long drawn screens
To keep the fans' soft whir
Where old and young can often dream
Of this life we call a blur
Tea is boiling, steaming hot
Beneath the iron stove
But we often think what is is not
And turn our head to go.
Spilt tea on ancient pages by a yourth standing by the door-
And the old man cries and whispers loudly,
"My dear, that's what erasers are for!"
By Anna Hope
Email: [email protected]
