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.