After months living in the vast, throbbing, thriving metropolis of Dhaka, one of the most wonderful things about arriving home in Northern Denmark is the closeness of nature. Here nature is like a living breathing presence, anytime you have the time to look for her.

.

Nature’s welcome

.

Stepping out into clear golden morning

Elusive nature purges jetlagged dreams

She’s waiting: naked, open-faced and smiling

She leads down pebbled paths with dancing steps

 .

Tossing barley hair in invitation

She waves her trees and twitters in their leaves  

Murmuring in summer flavoured whispers

She tells a tale that swells my heart to tears

 .

In majesty and miniature she charms me

Sweet flowers deck her honey scented limbs

In endless views she shows me all her treasures

Her all embracing being, home again

.

.

My last few days before traveling to Denmark for my annual leave. We are well into the holy month of Ramadan in Bangladesh and in the evenings I go out on my bicycle just as the Mullahs call the breaking of the fast. People everywhere, rich and poor, young and old, gather to break the fast and the streets are quiet for half an hour as everyone sits to enjoy their Iftar. It is a special moment and I’ve tried to capture it in this poem….

.

Breaking the fast

.

Hands raise bottles to dry lips, heads back,

Water passes through glued mouths to pleading throats

Long, quenching drink, water to thirsty cells

Heads bow over plates, fingers caress the texture

Hands carry food to the craving mouth, throat, stomach

.

Long moments of quiet, concentrated eating

Savoring the feel and flavour of hunger satisfied

The unity of food from shared plate,

Sharing knowledge of hunger,

Sharing the taste of righteous relief

.

Conversation mumbles around mouthfuls

Rise from food bowls to walk together to prayers

Beneath a sky alive with sunset

Air quivering with voices from Minarets

Relieved of heat and hunger, contented streets reawaken

.

.

Alone in Dhaka without my family, it takes time to grow comfortable with solitude… but after the first weeks she feels again like an old friend.

.

Empty Rooms

.

She moves in quietly, as others depart

Silent silhouette by shaded window, sitting still in shadows

Unobtrusive but politely persistent

 .

I avoid her, rise from my seat when she enters

Restlessly busy, ignoring the soft clearing of her throat

Returning late, leaving her alone in empty rooms

 .

She takes no offense, drifts quietly after me

‘Til I grow tired of evading her and turning at last to face her

Remembering that she is an old friend

 .

I had forgotten the relief of her consistency

Neglected our shared memories, her comfortable company

Embracing sad loneliness I find sweet solitude

.

This week’s poem is an appreciation of the joys of writing.

.

Writer unblocked

.

You have given me a new language

A novel way to see my world

I lacked nothing yet I am blessed with this

Eyes reopened –  views unfurled

 .

Unexpectedly it came to me

A new voice which makes fresh sense  

Different eyes which see distinctively

A translation more intense

.

First of Ramadan – deserted morning streets – crows looking puzzled – small birds twitter inquiringly from tree tops – where is everyone?

Between path and water, sparkling in #morning light, elegant trees model the latest in green shades

Waking up early in monsoon time Dhaka to go out into the hot humid day before it becomes so steamy that walking or jogging is out of the question, I think of my family, already in Denmark for the summer holiday, and look forward to the early morning runs in lovely Amtoft.

…

Fresh as melting Ice

…

Fresh as melting ice on morning skin

Leaves trembling in slanting light

Foliage bashful quivering

A drop pauses on a leaf tip, breaths in and falls

Reflecting green atmospheres

Fresh as ice across bare skin

Damp wind plays in shrubbery

Wild flowers nod on empty roadside

Crisp crunching of glistening pebbles

Spherical from passing centuries

Fresh as thawing ice on waking skin  

Puddles shivering quiet

Rippling reflections of a tiny world

Silence wetly satiated

Fresh as melting ice on tender skin

Policemen grandstand by local opposition office

walkers stride in dripping park

saried street-sweepers swing witches brooms down empty streets

lungis are the days favorite attire