the scent of jasmine
cicadas sing in the yard
shooting stars kind smiles
This one talks of memories of Cyprus. Sitting out late, talking, happy times, watching the sky and being so excited as a little boy, when I saw a shooting star for the first time.
One of my aunts died. She was a lovely generous giving lady. Though she had no children of her own, she looked after everyone else with an uncomplaining unconditional duty of love. A refugee (like almost all of my family) who never returned to her home village. Behind the happiness, there was always a deep melancholy, a sense of yearning for the familiar, for even happier times, for old neighbours now scattered by war, for home, for the mountains meeting the sea and the village nestled on the coast. Sadly, my parents generation is slowly getting ill, passing on. As the youngest of all my cousins by far it throws mortality at me, the transience of our time on earth stark and ugly.
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