by Oshadha Perera

You would walk along the cobbled path,

feeling the dew drops fall,

dancing to the songs of the wind,

and you’d order a coffee

at the corner of the street,

watching the esplanade,

rushing waves, bubbly foam,

boats floating on the horizon.

You would be sipping in milk

with soft foam and sugar,

watching the shadows get longer,

the sky turning into tangerine and apricot,

silhouettes of stars and birds flying home.

Airplanes would skim across the sky

and you would look at their reflections,

thinking back to when you were thirteen,

looking out of a double-pane window

to see land give way to clouds,

remembering the time when

you watched the ocean

from thirty-five thousand feet high,

city lights glittering in the dark,

the end of a seven-hour journey,

the place you knew nothing about,

the place you’ve lived most of your life,

the place you call home.