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From my Home in a Village-style Neighbourhood in Jing Hong  by Ke Jie
I hear
voices in the Dai language, unintelligible to my ears, a lilting, nasal-sounding tongue: a lady’s voice calling to her child,
I hear
children playing, happy voices and running sandaled feet

adults’ ambling, scuffling feet along the lane,

bicycles and bells, motorbikes and sān lún chē, or three wheel taxis (三轮车 ) puttering up the lane, more voices: a man proclaiming his services to repair, build or take away your junk,

a lady’s selling dòujiāng hé huāshēng tāng, or soy milk and peanut soup (豆浆和花生汤).

Birds chirping, the odd rooster crowing, voices shouting.
Pix
The Jing Hong neighbourhood that inspires this poem.


I look out
a heavy, leaden sky above,

onto green trees all around,

Trees—mango, papaya, jackfruit, lychee, pomelo, coconut palms, corn plants raising their ears at my neighbours’ across the lane.
I see
Solar panels and small metal water tanks on sloping tiled roof tops

greyish-black tiles, brick dwellings, earthy hues, low-rise, joined together at walls and roof

trees in courtyards and metal doors set into brick walls

My garden: tropical fruit trees and other lush leafy plants with my new ones in their earthen unfired pots:
azaleas, a blaze of colour;
bougainvilleas;
roses, red, yellow and pink;
jasmine, fragrant and heady.
Colour splashed against an earth and green-tree backdrop

I smile, sigh and say, “This is home”