Three cars are parked by the clearing
I find, every night under the faint light
of the dim street lamps. Two of them,
sedans, red and black, while the other's
a hatchback, white in colour. All dusty
and faded before the occasional wash.

The wheels of the white car have dug
into the mud after the puddles caused
by rains cleared. And flowers and twigs
garment it. I thought they were a big
family but, one, they own  a small car,
and two, they seem to use it sparse?

The red sedan, always parked reverse,
is sometimes gone suddenly away and
at other times, stays parked for weeks.
I've seen him in and out; does he have
work out-stations? Good car, I must
say though, for he's young and single.

The black one is gone most days, and
sometimes, for days together, to return
covered in bird droppings. They moved
recently, this quiet couple who prefer
to keep to themselves. May be they go
on long weekend drives out of the city?

I wonder, gazing at them, sipping my
tea, by the window, late every night.
'Why don't you just go speak to them',
says my wife, tired of my speculations.
'Hmm...not today, bit tired. Tomorrow,
May be', I say, as I jot down these lines.

These faultlines we tread:  
of island loves, we dread.
On the crests, lie parked our loyalties:
siblings, friends, parents and loves,
every love, bounded by sadnesses;
Faultlines that carry buried
embers under piles of smoke; and then
once a while, a paper wheel that
was still, revolves in the slow wind -
and embers come alive;
Suddenly unrequited attractions flame
over: O the lure of danger-laden
pathways on these faultlines that
we dread, yet love to tread.

How in dark lights, shadows talk and
could-have-been's and how-nice-
it-would-have-been's play out,
lonely paths, where embers
and shadows flutter in the winds, we
walk on. The fair wears out,
the gathering disperses, and
this deja vu cabin flashes
out exactly like those years ago and
hope emerges out into the
renewing fair, with the crest,
in that undivided year
when the sea hadn't reduced this mass
of our loves to these island bits
with these faultlines that we
dread, yet, love to tread

Between dim lights behind and
the streetlamps below, here,
shades of darkness where
my shadow mingles with
those of the chairs and the vase,
the lamp, and the cyclic rhythm
of the shadow of the fan
that slices moments to pieces,
to the music of  the gushing waves;
As you are busy illustrating slices
of life down there, you Señora,
stand illustrated, in these loving
shades of grey and black;
Now the wind travels far
beyond where the sky in her tunic
adorned of stars takes a dip
in the sea; These clouds, like me,
travel miles to weep by this same sea
that washes their native shores.

How is the night treating you? I am asleep,
but not. Half awake, but not. I am hope,
but not. I want to scream, but don't. In this
half-morning, I want yesterday, but don't.
Tomorrow has poured in, but hasn't.

Now these itchy feet. Itchy tips of hair
that rub the cheeks. Itchy heart where
love smoulders. Some sweeter itch:
but, itch, nevertheless; itch in my sleep.
I want to know if this is an itchy night?
The rain falls like an itch on the rooftop.

This is some funny farce of a farcical night.
Tonight, I love the teals more, but don't.
Coots seem darker than the sky, but aren't.
In this deep night, I am love, but not. In this
last 'but not', the 'not' part is small, I mean.

Locked doors either side of the stairs:
this empty evening, silences are vacant.
Old helmet on the bench by the door,
glass eye-cover raised: illusive presence.
Light from the hall peers into the dark
room, and reclines on the empty couch.
Spiralling shadows of incense plumes
rise snake-like on walls seeking the roof.
A lone spider ranges by the kitchen light,
lizard across the house seeking refuge.
This lone bird late mourns an absence
in her haunting call, this empty evening.

More and more you build
temples of stone.
Everywhere,
hewing rocks of the earth,
you set about your project:
But,
do you see -
that small bit of rock
would be enough, more
effective for Me to manifest,
all of a fist’s size,
this your hardened heart?

The displays

Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;

Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;

Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;

Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;

Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;

Foreground*

Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.