Crépe Yearnings Poem by Daleen Enslinstrydom

When the sky is grey and wet
and clouds hang low
the cups of the white Iceberg-roses
are wet and heavy
almost like my heart

and I listen to the drops
splattering in the bucket
under the gutter
like small fountains

and I sit on the edge of the bed
as I did when I was small,
looking through the drop stained window
at a swarm of weavers feeding on the lawn.

The smell of the wet earth
comes and nests in my nostrils
and brings a yearning
for crépes with cinnamon
and takes me back
to my childhood days

and I can almost hear dad’s voice,
almost experience the crackling and flickering
of the hardwood-fire
and I miss mom most of all
and her perfume of the fragrance of roses
mixed with the smell of rain
but most of all I miss her prescience.

Just before melancholy takes over
I get up to bake a few crépes
and sprinkle them
with lots of sugar and cinnamon
and while the rain dances on the roof
it brings a silence to my heart
and when the aroma
of freshly baked crépes fills the house
the yearning is stilled for a while.