It looks like the Master
Has suddenly decided
To turn the world into a painting.
The distant hills,
Are a darker shade of blue
The trees in the garden,
A more vibrant hue of light green
The neighbours’ tin roofs,
Greyer than steel
The football field across the road,
Straight out of an artist’s sketch pad.
That’s when the first drop of monsoon hits my face.
I look up.
In the back-ground, I hear Mother shriek:
“Get the clothes, the mattress, the quilt!”