The dead men of Koduvayur
line up,
every time we step out these days.
My father
one among them.
I don’t mean they do
physically,
in that corner near father’s clinic,
or on the dust road
to the mango grove.
I am a man of science—
never believed in ghosts.
Not a poet—
one to see faces
etched on tree stumps.
But the leaves of the tamarind
droop a little, every time
we walk past it — little flags
flying half-mast.
And pond herons still
their anxious wings,
and peer at us
with sombre eyes.
I wonder why.
I wonder whether they know
that they live among dead men—
those who keep walking
and those watching.
***
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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