Coconuts

Coconuts, flakes brushed on the surface

the chocolates she used to make, Mrs Robinson

Their faint smell still lingers,

The houses, the gardens,

Coconut’s their anthem,

the husk, sharp in my fingers,

crispy in a smooth way

reminds of plenty a old days;

Mum’s hair, brushing past the trees

and her shampoo, matched for convenience

reminds of coconuts dearly.

Its been a long time, and the aroma

It stayed, its hard to erase

I just wish to make this air too,

coconut-y

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