The fire sinks to ash

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

THE mortar rests
beside the wall,

the pestle leans
against the wall,
still from
the morning’s toil.

A footstep leaves
its mark in dust,

as earth still holds
the print
till wind
brushes it flat.

An oil lamp
flickers low,

and sends
a thread
of bluish smoke
to mingle
with the thatch.

The goat
no longer calls.

Hands roll
the goatskin mat
and place it
by the corner.

Behind the baobab,
the sun slips low,

surrendering
the scorching air
to the cooling dark.