I watched as ‘Summer’ fell with the
Glamourous April Kolkata rains last evening.
Beaded with the wind
The rains lashed the lanes…washed, cleansed
The sweat and dust of the city of joy.
The first drop fell giving way to
Thousand splinters quaking
The sanity of earth; a few
petals trembled on the Gulmohar tree
And shed as a requiem….;
A frenzy bunch of Red-beaked parrots
Raised a babel; and settled on the tree-
still lush with some ably strong red blooms…
What a grandly embroidered landscape it was!
After the rains stopped,
I skipped down the stairs to the garden,
ran up to the tree
Sat under it …
A pleasant night was spreading vast over the cooler Kolkata.
Summer is not a myth, nor are the nor’westers--
the wayward, irresponsible thunder-showers.
They come every year to convey mortality.
How strange is death!
Sometimes there is not much to write by way of a 'poem' but a recurrent thing/theme/object also wouldn't allow one to find peace until one gets it out of one's mind. Come summers, and as its time for the Gulmohar flowering, no matter where I am, a surfeit of 'Krishnachura' memories start playing in my head.
** Gulmohar tree- Flame tree.
Written for Sumana.