Sweeping across tempered
Sands, my skin seasoned with
Salt, gnawed to its core, on a
Waking shore, the waves skinny,
Yet crystal, distilled in every
Pore. And I dream. I dream of
Home. My home. Where coffee
Brews in brass bruised, rises in
Gleaming steel, rice cakes on
Trivets, steam, to wafting strains
Across far flung lanes. Oh, I wait
For home where jasmine bloom,
Not street corners alone, in weaves
Of hair, and every room; when
Churches dwell with temple bells,
And together chime with the call
To prayer. Slap! The racing waves
Are at my face. I’m here. I am
Home. I thirst for home.
***
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].
-30-
Copyright©Madras Courier, All Rights Reserved. You may share using our article tools. Please don't cut articles from madrascourier.com and redistribute by email, post to the web, mobile phone or social media.Please send in your feed back and comments to [email protected]
