I smell the orange blossoms

In Balzan, where I walk

The streets I once played during my childhood years.

Here my memories surface before me.

The birds are noisy now,

They sing,

And their noise pleases me.

In the front gardens grow the citrus trees,

The oranges and the lemons make up the colours of my walk,

And the colourful doors on the streets are firmly shut.

Indoors they may be eating or sleeping,

While I meander on.

It’s early spring here,

The air is gentle on my step,

And some doors I pass I recall a story,

Through every door there is a home.

My door in the next village is my approach,

My silence and my retreat.

I have built a small home here,

Close enough to my childhood years,

But away and unnoticed all the same.

These words simply came to me during a recent walk from Balzan to Attard, in Malta as described. I stopped to jot them down.