An early morning journey through the hills of Honduras had me reaching for my notepad once more:
From the window
A corrugated tin roof reddens with rust.
Corn grows in rows on the side of the road.
Fallen trees shrouded in moss
lie heavy in the long grass.
A pair of tiny fishing boats
poised on the lake
leave untroubled the waters by their sides.
Posters of people’s faces, once awash with colour,
hang limp and lifeless, fading.
Rotting posts suspend barbed wire,
coiled and twisted, strewn between them.
A dappled grey and white horse, tail flicking,
stretches for blades of grass out of reach of its tether.
Washing hangs on a line; green, blue, red, yellow.
A vulture, black and grey, perches placidly,
scanning left and right.
And the forested hills rise ever up and up in the distance,
climbing into mountains.