Umbrellas on my landing

 

When you can own your sorrow and can contain

it, you will come to realise that this rain

too is a boon - umbrellas on the landing,

this diffuse, lacklustre light like a curtain

 

of gossamer dark. The stairs where the old floor’s

pitted, the peeling paint on the walls and doors.

The soul knows to recreate its own housing

but it’s a blessing that it’s been here before.

 

The headlines are full of a lad called lotus

who’s bagged a gold. You’re too far gone to focus.

Immersed in a celebration of mourning

rain or gold, you’ve decided not to notice.

 

Tomorrow may be clear but you mayn’t be there

to witness wet umbrellas left at the stairs.

I'm back where I started out from twenty five years ago and I'm back here, writing. The relocation is going, well...as all relocations go - vaguely tumultuous and unendingly interesting, if you know what I mean. 

Everyday I miss the Arablands sorely, the beauty of the deserts, the quiet magnificence, the close knit sense of community, of hospitality. 

India is magnificent too in a different way, an 'unquiet' way, sometimes in a hilariously difficult way. It is a different kind of adventure. I'm not sure where it is going, but I'm determined that I'm going along with it.

And I'm going to be mindful and notice each day as it happens and if poetry happens then I'll hang it out here to dry.  Glad to be back and so very glad to be here finally! :)