Pale

Image courtesy Rashmi Bhatnagar

the year has suddenly paled to november

the sun wears comical visors to the front
the palm wearies of the weight of her fruits
shakes down the dates, red and oblong

 

evenings drop in on silken feet, rake their fingers

through the last strands of golden hair
nights harden but can’t nail their hearts
I’ll spear mine though with pigeon-throat songs

 

the sacred figs sharpen their leaves and remember

to observe ancient ratios of points to lengths
autumn colour grass somewhere in richlands
itches in yellow splashes on the ground

 

the seagull unravels a wave, and pretender

horizons masked in grey scarves of time
roll in, roll in and then recede and go home
I’ll  go find mine in a verse of woodwind sounds.



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