Homesick

The wind from the south

is an old friend,

its embrace warm

like the desert.

It speaks of home,

carries to me

the scent of mint tea,

sweet and soothing,

tells me the

figs are ripening

into black sticky

sweetness

and need to be picked;

whispers that my olive trees miss me.

Beth Brookeis a retired teacher, living on the Jurassic Coast of Dorset and drawing inspiration from its landscape. She is a Quaker. She has had poems published in a variety of journals and is currently working on her first poetry collection.

What does memory smell like?

Figs! Well to be properly accurate the smell of fig leaves when the temperature reaches that certain point that the scent oozes out and pulls you to it. I was born in Yemen and spent several years of my childhood in Libya. We had fig trees…