Kodaikanal
(August, 2016)
Fresh mountain air
peppered
with the thick scent
of pine
needles, rotting;
mingled with
mist mist mist
everywhere.
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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