A dreary, grey day of incessant rains.
Droplets of water clinging to bare branches ,
Time pooling into minutes,
minutes into hours.
The ticking of the clock,
The creaking of floorboards,
The indistinct gobbledygook of the TV.
On such days the mind wanders,
To Mali and its dusty, potholed streets,
Adrift in a sea of green, blue, red metal steeds,
Sputtering, phuttering , clanking, honking,
And yellow motorised boxes, coughing
black smoke, rattling and juddering
To Tomokorobougou, Badalabougou
Medinakoura, Sebenikoro.
Faces at the window,"100 cfa please",
« Madame livres pour enfants, peignes, mouchoirs,"
"No, don't clean my window, don't!'" to no avail.
An onslaught of life,
Battering the fragile ramparts of self.
At such moments, the mind wanders,
