Faraway Temple

Tea. 6.16 am. Retro-pop
plays on your radio, the cat
yawning and upturned, curling
into a

corner where your quilt acts
as a heater, the spoon tinkers
the air
like a bell, you

remember the temple, don’t you?
Scent of drizzle and white flowers
seducing
the child you, becoming
medicine for sad mornings, slowly
fading away
into one page
of a new book, unwritten

but revisited. Tea, 6.19 am, brewed.
This honey though, weak and plastic,
nothing compares to the beehive, above
the temple wall

smoke rises

Adamant

Cream biscuits. Butter.
A rusting toaster. Late afternoon.

4.15 pm, the light slants
into a crowded room
smelling of sleeping books.
Steam touches
a trembling forearm. White
hair

felt by the ceiling fan. Tobaccco.
An overused pipe. A fluttering flame.
Within you, seventy years
of old bad habits. A dead son,
an estranged daughter
bits and pieces of friends
some finished and some almost there
like biscuits. Breaking.
Vanishing carefully. Apart from that
Sixty years
of unfinished poetry
waiting to see an end

Last Chai, Circa 2016

23.15. The cafe murmurs

the last of broons are sliced,
their chips meet the floor, dusted
by one trusted cleaner, who mutters
local abuses to the drunkard
wailing Bollywood songs
to an unseen lover
far away

rice, trotters
maybe some mince
are handed out to aged women
waiting to hand out
daily gratitude

my tea is done, the saucer
holds a little spillover
imprinted on the table
is the stamp of the cup’s bottom
inked by trickled chai
and twenty years of mine

7.1.17