Sunday- the day when you can beYourself- and not let be ruled –A day to do what you wish to doAnd not what others want you to do.Sunday – the day one could readEven the most insignificant adA day you need brush your teethOnly when you want to eat.I have a little duster, of softSynthetic bristles – to dustThe books, tables or the shelvesAnd an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.There’s something about cleaning,Dusting, tidying up and swiping.A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain,A crack that weren’t there before.
There is a method to starting a bike.A deliberateness, a pause, before every step.Keenly detecting flecks of dust, dried droppingsOf crows, of oil leaked and sticking like pasteMixed, with the finest of grainsWiping it all clean.Flipping back the stand, inserting the keyAnd turning it right, assured of the green light,You depress the lever; throttle closed,Carefully pressing your foot down on the kickerYou pause – again, before bringing it down againGently, but firmly and swiftly,Listening to the plug catching a spark.As the engine sputters to life, you listen to the thuds, even.With such intimacy, with almost love, you listen
In the night, listening to the soundsOf rain drumming on the tin roof,To the crashing cymbalsOf dried branches of the Mango tree falling,To the shattering boom of coconutDropping like a cannon ball -And the wail of the windAnd the croak of the frogs –The patter of rain on the cemented courtyardAnd to the sour, sullen silences of the night -Looking, mind empty of thoughts, lookingAt the seeping water drippingThrough the cracked tiles on the roofAnd running down the wall -At the puddle growing, movingSlowly like a serpent across the floor -
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
The Winters are so short --I'm hardly justifiedIn sending all the Birds away --And moving into Pod --Myself -- for scarcely settled --The Phoebes have begun --And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --And open House -- again --It's mostly, interruptions --My Summer -- is despoiled --Because there was a Winter -- once --And al the Cattle -- starved --And so there was a Deluge --And swept the World away --But Ararat's a Legend -- now --And no one credits Noah --