listening to your barrage of pop rock
the exclusive smoke rings
coming to me like lucid lyrics
the window flings open for the afternoon
to sings songs of rustling leaves
who spectate carefully
moment after moment
occasionally intruding
by falling into the room

the sun slants more and more
your breath enriched by nicotine
asking to be grasped

Evening Snacks at the Hill Overlooking Your Favourite Scenery

cream cracker heavy
with paprika, herbs and cheese
bursts in your mouth
what a gorgeous evening it is

terns dive in the estuary
wearing the scent of fresh fish
hills dense with orchids and cashews
we order for an extra dish

filled with the essence of the scape
it arrives in mixed portions, eschewing
delicacies and favourites, instead
bringing pieces of meadows and memories
of years lived in isolation, away
from the brackish gems of this home
a dish filled with something we can both share

we divide it into equal parts
call separately for wine and sautéed beef
at sunset breaking it into halves
flinging it over the ancient cliff
in the humid air they dissolve into birds
gliding gracefully to the beach
following the wind as their prophet
settling at the ocean’s mouth
silently discussing the future


I let my words go last night
They travelled cold deserts under a sage moon
Whispering ancient secrets to still oases
Silently calling scattered gazelles and foxes
To come drink together

They traversed countless dunes and entered a town
Where shops were shutting and drunks were rising
Filling every house slowly like opium
Eventually arriving at every mother’s lip
Each growing
into a different story

Much later they reached a sparkling port
Ships carrying dates and saffron anchored momentarily
They dissolved into each sleeping sailor’s dream
Becoming peaceful prayers
For battles to come

Like all words they tired too
And cuddled in a moving caravan and fell asleep
Someday I might find them again
Dressed in a different language with changed names
I hope they might remember me
And teach me poetry all over again

Between Rain

sulken branches, holding
societies of weaver bird nests
speckled by the moving chatter
of a thousand yellow birds
forming lives

the fields heavy with ponds, bordered
by tip toeing jackals
the quenched quails that flutter in unison
and the black stone stands mossy, waiting
for a fern to cover its eyelashes

and till the long distance, the country
ripens in the green season
a soft light glazes the earth
each bund
a square mirror for the clouds