India, March 1992

Tea leaves slowly billowing out, the boiling water invaded by,
The brown fragrant leaves like a length,
Of silk hung from a balcony in a warm breeze.
And that small sound of voices in another room,
Words scrawled across the page of your ear;
Each one unintelligible yet if you were just a little closer,
You would make it out.
Pictures blurred, no matter how you screw up your eyes or
Turn the images about in your head they remain jumbled.
That thought that you just missed by moments
Already gone down the track of forgotten memory.

All that remains is the warm smell on your skin,
That comes from a far off land’s heat wrapped around you,
Holding you like a precious child.