by Sonnet Mondal
Catching fish,
One, two, three.
Three in three tips…
My grandfather didn’t applaud me,
Not a matter for him.
Catching daily
Whenever I am here
Or I used to be here…
For the place remains
No more alike.
They have grown old
And I fear going to water alone
No, not for the black, blue, green waters
But for the alarm of
Melancholic nostalgia
That would coil me
Like a python…
Grip me and throw me
And ingest my patience
My things to cherish….
My tears will form another pond beside now
Perhaps then I will be fishing in it.
Pic : old shoe woman – http://www.flickr.com/photos/judybaxter/
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touching Sonnet…..