Wednesday, 7 January 2015


The first verse comes in time, falls into place
as a pebble into a pool; smooth the surface
once the ripples are gone, no-one gets to know
the magic of panic, adrenalin glow
emitted in psychedelic shrieks.
They come by, some notice the silky-sleek
grey waters with an old gold sunset thread;
some notice only the slow-motion tread
of tentacles in the deep, most skip the whole.
Because the pool isn’t what they stole
out for; not even the crooner cares for the poolside song;
the pebbles too shift, move around, move along.
The final destinations always lie past
the skirts of waters and verse in the dust.


  1. Very deep Nila. Are you saying we lack understanding...miss the point? Hope I didn't miss the point...:~)

    1. Nope. Of all the people who read here, you are the least likely to miss the point. :-) This one's more about the poet than the reader. On second thought, aren't they all? :D


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