Tired of all the African dust
That breezes in with the wind
Covering my books and papers
Choking me from within
Instantly ageing my European clothes
Making my body itch
An everyday nuisance un-foretold
Every space a home for it to settle-in
Thick and brown like human ashes
Finding no purpose or use
All over my luggage and inside of my shoes
A poignant memory of a time almost lost
A musky smell that evokes distrust
How quickly I grew tired
Of (all) the African dust.
© Anna Marie Hopewell, December 2002
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