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There is not much one can do
when winter's sun plays the ghost
and trees with flailing arms, seem repentant
of days gone, with summer cherry kisses
disappearing. The glistening white on fields
is reminder to a past which has lost ways.
School. The fields are no longer green.
Swishing of cricket bats- the sound, inviolate
Childhood is one such switch over.
Yet love the summer houses look pale
as winter merges with these quiescent hills
witness to thunderous rains and clapping of clouds.
Sounds merge with clouds and the hills as if lying supine
wait patiently for the crow, another season.
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