Childhood Lost

When on the wings of a gentle breeze
Came the enticing scent of flowers
To nudge me awake and out of my bed
To  greet the new sunny summer day,
I rushed outside to wash my face
With the rosy glow of the smiling sun,
Thinking that I will always remain
A little girl roaming among these flowers ....
But, oh, the day always gave in to the night
That filled me with fright of growing old,
Wrinkled and wobbly like my granny,
And as the darkness' ink spread over me,
Alone, me and my doll clutched each other,
Thinking the world had been lost for us.
But again came a new bright day,
Reassuring me of myself and the world,
Showing everything is what it was,
Though the flowers had wilted in the vase,
I thought everything was sunny and sweet
Like the robin's melodious morning tweet,
But slowly the time took its toll,
It robbed me of childhood and my doll.

© Portia Burton

Did I Cry? Why?

On waking up in the morning
I felt the smears of tears
across my cold cheeks,
with the gory image
of the last evening
of a sparrow killed
by the neighbour's cat
still burning my eyes.
'Did I cry? Why?'
I wondered aloud.
The walls replied,
'Because we could not.'

©Portia Burton

The Girl in the mirror...

How the world got changed
In a mere moment!

Flower-like dreams got crushed
Under the sudden darkness,
And a tiny star
Twinkling with celestial music
Became lustreless and mute.

Tales of frolicking fairies
Lost their charm,
And the lips of the branches
Gently kissing a stream
Became totally numb.

Eyes knew for the first time
That they carried tears,
Sobs got arrested in the throat
Like the daisies strangled by weeds.

The girl in the mirror
Lost her smile.

© Portia Burton

Granny

Granny,
It was you
who put away
my childhood 'walker'
and taught me how to walk,
fall ,
and walk again on my own...
It was you
who swirled around
like a ballerina
in  my school auditorium
when I played  a ballet dancer...
It was you
who lovingly
massaged my aching feet
after my mountain trek...
you could walk
only a few steps
holding my hand,
yet
there used to be so much joy
on your wrinkled face
as if all the paths of the world
were bowing down before you.
.....

Now
All I have is a quilt
made by you for me,
and though it is very old,
I still seek through it
your warm touch.

© Portia Burton

Granny's Cottage

I am visiting my granny's cottage
Some time after her sad demise,
I hold my breath on the threshold
As her memories flood my mind.
Without going inside I can see
Each room of this tiny cottage:
The front room where she welcomed
Her friends, and even a stray goat.
Her table by the curtained window,
Where she raised her cup of tea
To the rising sun, and to the birch
Whose branches always waved to her.
Her kitchen where she always had
Something delicious only for me,
At least her dainty hand-made cheese.
Her husband's study which remained
Locked even for her darling me,
It was actually a treasured vault
Where the memories of the moments
Which she had shared only with him.
Then her room, her books, her bed,
Where as a child I slept in her arms,
As my mother also may have done,
Reaching for her face with tiny hands,
While drifting away to meet the fairies
On the wings of her magical stories.
And it was there our roles where reversed,
When I had to put her to some sleep,
As she clutched my hand like a child
To find some support while drowning
In the unbearable pain of her sickness,
And it was on that bed I had found her
Sleeping peacefully in the arms of death,
And as per her wish I had prepared for her
From her garden's flowers a clumsy wreath.

© Portia Burton