Poetry

February Morning!

Clouds and a copter hang in the air,

Clouds whittled white from 10 o’clock sun

Is blameless, barring the black kite orbiting under

Like a roving mole on the run.

The clouds are otherwise grey and dense

Much like the Copter with some insignia painted over.

The copter chops, chops, chops

As if clouds were a heap of cabbage

To be diced for Indian curry cooking.

The copter chops, chops, chops,

Nothing falls, no broken feathers or turds,

Clouds keep retaking position;

The dowager kite, scooping for meal

Wings spread apart; talons curved backwards

Train eyes on the moving deal. `

                                                                      ~ Saranyan Bv

                                                                            Bangalore, India

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*