Bright as a two-rupee coin fished out of a back pocket,
Silver-brushed, faintly three-dimensional.
This grey-blue, sun-spooked morning.
An old Gulmohar across the narrow street,
Scantily clad, like an anorexic South-Delhi social Czarina,
Shivers in the beastly breeze.
The struggling pine on my terrace
Beckons to it, waves in commiseration.
Trapped in a pot three sizes too small,
It sheds it's scrawny arms in silent protest.
There are no butterflies here
Only a few fat wasps,
Disoriented and far from home,
Meandering through mazes of stocky jade stems.
One little bird sits huddled on a parapet
Wings tucked in, eyes resolutely shut
Hoping, like me, to wish the sun aflame.
Loved reading this..and now that winter has more than just arrived, write about it :)
ReplyDelete:) Thankee! That's about all the encouragement I need for spamming your page with blog updates! ;)
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