If winter comes can spring be far behind?
Some relief like Noah’s feeling
at the sight of the dove’s olive green
that flooded photosynthetic hope
is always there, like
the sun’s secret promise
seeded under every burnt sienna
of unploughed shadows.
There’s much around
in autumn’s brown foliage
squirreled in the
shifting shadows of light
all blank versed collages that
would be a poem later after
a score of diligent redrafts.
In a clearing by the
remote hutments beside
fields-turned layouts
a poor farmer gathers
some fallen palm leaves
to roof the kachcha structure
of his future home.
Elsewhere some truants
kite dreams out of
old newspapers
as they feel
the world (of reality)
is too much with us
in the confined pages
of their homework
the school imposes.
Parrot green
life shoots
here and there
coucals hop
to find seeds
among bone boles.
