The wind brought the dead leaves of a new autumn
And duly rattled our windows, in gaps of their hinges
Through which eerie old ghosts shriek at midnights.
In the bare hills the wind stayed still in sunny shrubs
But the ancient caves echoed with the manacled wind
Of history, within walls that bore many marks of men
Who had brought their wind from the parched plains.
Migratory birds brought their wind from the far lands
A sticky wind that slowly settled on our drying puddles
As they made themselves comfortable in new homes .
An old tree ,failing to sprout leaves, pretended to sway
To the wind as if it still tickled funny bones in the day
And made scary whoosh sounds in its leaves at nights.
The moon climbed the sky in shreds of white clouds.
The coconut tree dealt softly with our parapet wall.
We saw bunches of coconuts sit heavily in its bosom.
Water sloshed in their shells shaking in gentle wind
Like in a baby’s head we shook with our both hands
With tongue-clucking in mouth for the water sound
And as the baby gurgled, we laughed in waters of love.
At night the moon was badly caught in its branches
And for a while we thought it was devouring it slowly
Until we would see it back in the sky with silver ring
That would mean monsoon clouds later in the night.
The waters walked slowly, from the red mountains
Entering parched plains, with wind on their backs.
The forked snake tongues would proceed smoothly,
Exploring, gently patting short grasses on the heads
Feeling for living creatures, their thingy existences
Under the sky and on the earth,brown with the sun.
Mountains bled with muddy waters in their hearts
And renewed lives of our rivers for one more year.
Houses we remember, in sun and rain.
Homes that lived, cheek by jowl with
The maternal mango trees of summer.
Their shadows painted white canvas.
In monsoon they were painted green
In delicate taffeta of luminous moss.
The squirrels climbed mango looking
Curiously into your bedroom window.
The sky strata grow wider for the asking.
You asking you want to be the shepherd
In mountains to negotiate endless space.
Your flock has endless feet for counting.
You know you want to stop conversation.
Your weather is sun hid in backyard tree.
Its rain is deep in hiding in a beach sea.
Its clouds are nightly television thunder.
Moon has tell-tale circles like tired eyes.
They tell you rain may or may not come.
The child wind is a spirit, like the fallen leaf
That rolls along towards the earth’s infinity
Riddled with false matter from its past sky.
The mischief maker touches human cheeks
Provokes them to endless fits of kiddo mirth
With the hair falling loosely about like grass
Unfurled in the hours before a wind gets it .
Breeze is no laughing matter in a hand fan,
Nor in trees shaking with excess sunshine
On days when a mercury rises in the glass.
Shake trees , will you? asks nostalgic mom,
Her sultry despair climbing hard nut trees
Looking for child of the wind in neem trees.
Actually it is found shaking polythene bag
In bedraggled bush, just outside of the city.
At least the finite will keep the breath intact
In the end , till the mountains in a blue haze
The twin hills that seemed to climb the sky
For the telltale eagle to beat about the bush.
The bush does nothing except to sit pretty.
The lizard is its home ,a destination comfort
An earth not moving away to a far off near.
Bushes do not move but think as if to move
But not to shocking loss of their finiteness
To breathless infinity of a brown hillscape.
In Bokeh of a pure view I shall fix the focus
Round the lizard to rescue bush and myself
From the infinity of bare naked visual field.