Many satellites
Racing against all the stars
West to east in line
Unrelenting heat
Invisible hot dry wind
Bringing no relief
Grass bows warm air blows
Children run free and alive
perfect day – alone
West wind blows leaves fall
the rustle of autumn sounds
Muffle my despair
This harsh place called home-
seemingly nothing of joy
Yet my being is filled
The clouds turn paynes grey
a pink tinge from the last rays
merges into night
Threads of yesterday
fall like leaves. Liminal space
I step, unafraid.
Chapter Six 