Moonless inky sky
Somewhere a lonely dog howls
Batwings flutter by


Moonless inky sky
Treetop silhouettes swaying
Lonely koel calls


Moonless inky sky
Dark clouds wrestle and rumble
Lightning blinds the eye

Yesterday wept bitterly
at the threshold
when I left her,
gently prising my fingers free
of her clutching hands.

Will I see you again, she asked.
Maybe, I mumbled
and I stepped out
into the twilight.

Tomorrow stood there
waiting like a bride
shy, tremulous
drawing little rings in the sand
with her toes.

I hurried towards her.
I was aware of the sand
slippingawayfromundermyfeet
like the last grains
hurtling down the neck
of a ruthless hourglass.

Come to me, my love, I whispered
as I grabbed her hungrily.

How lonely were you
in that solitary grave
atop the hill
where
the wind whistled
now and then
tousling the dry blades of grass
and moulding the rusty boulders
into eerie shapes
where
the vague echoes
from the valley
and from the hills beyond
merged into
the silence,
the stillness

After that life of love
of tumult and adulation
I bet you'd come
to love this solitude
this quiet place
to rest in peace
while the wind erased
your name from
the headstone...

Until they brought the rest,
shovelling every now and then
and chanting from the book
and then throwing
clumps of sod
disturbing you
with their muffled sobs
which the wind brought back
a century later to me, now.

The well in my city house
is old, decrepit and closed.
its water is black and stagnant,
its breath stale like an old man's.
like mine.
Nobody draws from it anymore
and it's ready to be interred forever
deep into the earth where it belongs
like me.

Long long ago, maybe,
it wasn't a city well.
Maybe
When it was a village well,
young girls with oiled combed plaited hair
and flower garlands sang
as they crashed a tin bucket
into the cool water
letting the bucket fill
then crashing it again
then letting it fill
then again and again
playing with the water, the well,
before drawing
And the pulley screamed in laughter
at the fun of it all.
So innocent.
And the lone bored catfish
came up from the depths
and rolled his eyes skyward
in righteous indignation
at the prankster girls
and their loud happy giggles
and their flying pigtails.

I wish i could lay my hands
on a grapnel
and dredge that well.
My village well.
For memories
For lost and forgotten things
like tin buckets
like little toys
soggy paper boats of hope
sighs of despair
lazy summer months
carefree days
long lost friendships.
I wonder though
if any grapnel can latch on
to wispy wistfulness.