A Tiffany sky. Jacarandas & Gulmohars. Eliot, Neruda, Seth. A rocking chair. Chopin and The Who.
The sky is a serene Tiffany blue, watching indulgently as the clouds play their quiet but violent tug of war.
The trees are proudly flaunting their newly acquired coat of shimmering green leaves, gently swaying to the music of the wind.
The African tulips have disappeared. The rich-red flowers of the Gulmohar are being roused from their sleep, yawning as they prepare for their glorious profusion all over the country. Already, the jacaranda is stretching its lavender wings towards the sky.
Here comes the brief intruder that splashes our lives with colour, music, poetry, memories …and a tender smile.
First comes Eliot. Love songs. Lost city. The yellow fog that curled once more about the house. Souls etherized against the sky. Measuring life with coffee spoons. Conversations that slip between velleities & carefully caught regrets, attenuated tones of violins mingled with remote cornets. Lilacs. Hyacinths. The drinking of tea. Preludes. A heap of broken images, fear in a handful of dust. HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME. Tirisuis. The third who always walks beside you. Hypocrite lecteur. Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata.
And then, Chopin. Polonaise. Mazurka. Etude. Prelude. Waltz. the Funeral March. And the Fantaisie Impromptu.
Next, Neruda. I can sing the saddest lines tonight. Isla Negra. Slowly dies who. Something of yesterday clings to today. The spans of cements, two breasts, two abysses…held by the concrete calligraphy that writes on the page of the river.
Seth, too. All you who sleep tonight. The Room & the Street. A kind of loving. Unstated intentions. Plums. Red suitcases. A helve of dares, a loaf of shoulds. Sit, drink your coffee. Chinese sunsets. Perhaps, this could have stayed unstated…
A rocking chair.
And maybe, just maybe, The Who. Run, run, run. A quick one.
A touch of spring.