When the mountains stared at our backs,
it was my mother who read the sky, its cobalt
glass full of moisture. The clouds formed
a necklace at the summit. If I could remember
the smell I would describe this as well. Though
I do recall the smoke trying to join with the clouds.
Each tendril plume learning to fly. These birds
of smoke released themselves from the dung
hut chimney as my body rested on her back.
Braced in the sling of her shawl she sang
in a language I no longer recognise from thinking
but can identify from sight. It sounds like water.
1 June 2016