Poetry

No Power Lines since Eleven

The breeze weigh heavy on trees,

Clouds on armrest,

Leaves browse charmingly in the warmth of low sun

No power lines since eleven, the genset is on,

The smell of diesel and smoke upon,

Someone jogging down the lane, broken pavements,

Uncollected garbage, incontinent sneezes,

There’s also smell of mustard spluttering in oil,

Gardeners in service-dress wielding garden scissors,

Father showing daughter the albino fish beating its tail

And saying to her, the albino is a freak of nature,

Street mongrels are sleep, not all of them are black,

Alley cat licks its paw.

Boughs bowing

and lifting to see if it is all over.

 

~Saranyan Bv

Bangalore, India

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