Under a sickle moon
As night falls
Like summer sweat
In the nape of a neck,
Mad frogs in the wild grass
Shrill under my feet,
Where parched sparrows
Of the white noon
Have foraged growing seeds
Of my garden-bed.
Beyond these ill-advised French-doors
Where crows smash
Foolishly into the confusing glass
Is the vagrant highway
Fenced aplenty by angry wire
Where drifters in and out
Squint at bright headlights
And turns mistaken.
As I doff my hat
To the wrong gods
And forget my lines
In neighbourly chinwags,
Foetal on my porch
A dog dies of dearth
And disease.
Is kinship earned at love’s cost
Or disquiet mistaken for love lost?
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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