Pack up

When I am away, I do not miss your charm

I don’t weep over the beards of banyan trees,
the spikes of straight, but profusely eccentric palms
or the way the paddies shiver in the breeze.

The desert has its bleakness, and its place.

Its magnificence spills over its bare flanks
its vastness controlled with an exact grace
that knows to stop just short of river banks.

So when I am away, I’ve learnt not to long

for your skies, still blue in the darkest night
for the conch shell’s deep-throated, tranquil song
that sets the dawn saffron hour alight.

I’ve learnt to find your face in all landforms

hefting this homelessness of two homes.



Linked to FormForAll@dVerse

Posted because we were talking here about homesickness of the expat variety triggered by autumn recently, and because I love sonnets.