In the belly of the bungalow

In the belly of the bungalow

Stands the cold food box

Buzzing a white-noise tune.

Its canvas coloured

By the mosaic of life,

Painted in plastic-ceramic knickknacks,

And speckled by tea-stained postcard greetings.

Each of them recall

The footsteps traversed,

The cultures immersed,

And now aid the toddler’s teething.

From its hearty contents

She’s made mighty meals

That have nourished our journeys

To Phuket, Vancouver and Budapest!

And now feed the little man’s beating chest.

Mini time capsules bought

On cobbled side streets

To adorn the home of great-grandmother

(Once chewed on by his own father)

Now munched down by the tyrant

And his two milk teeth!

Keepsakes that tell the tales of travel

Will in time, recite his own.

But for now,

He’ll shake and rattle

Speaking in excited vowels

As he feeds his desire to know.

These technicolour tiles

Paint a portrait of time

And ignite his ever-growing mind.

They strengthen the sprouting light

Of a sundial.

They sway the pendulum

         Back

    And

         Forth.

And tick the aortic chime

Of a Grandmother clock.

Souvenirs that have frozen

Moments in time

Beat

Again

And again

To the sailing song of new life.