Saturday, September 10, 2016

Kodaikanal (August, 2016)

Fresh mountain air peppered
with the thick scent of pine
needles, rotting; mingled with
mist mist mist
Little droplets that roll
off my hair on to
thin canvas shoes and
cold cold cold feet.
Moist roads, that lead  
nowhere but to
cemeteries with
little wooden crosses that
carry no names, no epitaphs.
Only ghosts that glide along
conspiring with bald tyres,
following, following, following.
And the mist.
Blinding, threatening,
invading, invading, invading
my soul…
Why weren’t you there,
my darling?

“How was Kodaikanal, dee?”
“It was good, da. It was good.”

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