It’s a distant single file of women
trudging through the scorching morning deserts -
It’s a single winding line of silence.
A flower blooming, ignoring the fence.
A rash of lights on the dark of nightskin -
It’s always more in silence than in words.
It mostly needs no further embellishments,
a trade-off between this silence and that.
It stops too at the rank and the rotten
and tries to see nothing is forgotten.
The blanks of pauses make their quiet differencethe truth and the toothcomb, concise and exact.
Today this blog completes five years, and I was looking through the posts and here is the very first poem I posted called Pixellate. A lot of water under the bridge since then, and I am rubbish at marking the individual waves, but I do notice how amidst all the changes, some things don't budge at all.
What are you celebrating this weekend? Have a happy one!