My Village Home Poem by Kwai Chee Low

Miles of paddy fields catch the eye,
shimmering golden in the heat of the midday sun.
Farmers in straw hats with buffalo in tow,
crisp fresh air I have missed for so long.

The village stands untouched by time,
with its hazy outline of distant mountains.
Joyful cries and laughter of children,
playing hopscotch beneath the old elm tree.

Each day the rooster robustly heralds the morning,
its throaty crow shattering the tranquil peace.
Yesterday's rain has transformed the earthy trail
into muddy clumps and soggy grass.

The hot afternoon reluctantly gives way
to a blustery cool evening and swaying coconut trees.
Soon the warm glow of sunset fades to dusk,
a purplish cloak that stealthily envelopes the weathered houses.
As street lights come to life, shadows grow and waver.