There's a hole

There's a hole, a small niggling hole in the fresh expansiveness
I don't know what's inside it
I can't quite reach it, yet
There's a hole a small niggling hole where something of the future resides
It's exciting, undiscovered teritorry
But I know it's there

The return...

Ah we are home.  Home to spring; with snowdrops and daffodils in the garden and fresh billowing sunshine drying our clothes on the line.  Our trip was incredible, but now we've swapped vibrant, glorious heat buzzing night-markets, filled with stalls selling little coconut pancakes and mounds of fresh fruit; scorching coloured silks; handpainted paper umbrellas and all manner of exotica, for the cool orderly aisles of the Co-op.  I am now bumping into young mothers, commuters and villagers as I walk down the village street rather than Budhist monks, chattering laughing children and tuk tuk drivers. The moist warmth, the searing heat, the rivers and temples are a long plane-ride away but they are still with me when I close my eyes.