Forgotten village

He used to  return at dusk

from the fields

with a sack of maize on his back and 

beads of sweat on his forehead

smelling of mother earth.

He had put up three scarecrows 

their old shirts and trousers flapping in the breeze.

The rusty kerosene lantern hung from the wall 

barely lit the balcony. His old Panasonic radio encased 

In a old black leather case hung near the kitchen.