by Saranyan BV
I thought the sky was gray,
the sunrays spreading out from the horizon like a porcupine
makes the kind of impact. The water, hip-deep in this shallow part of the pool;
I rest, stretching my legs as apart as I could,
my back against the blue tiles, feeling the slaps of waves
upon my lumbar. A lonely sparrow tries to drink water from the deeper side,
there is nobody else; I wish I could touch it,
let it strut on my wrist – little talons drawing crosses on my skin in red.
The pool does not have a spring-board for diving,
wish it had; the perimeter wall is gray and made of cheap hollow blocks,
Nobody had thought of painting, the construction
remains an unfinished work of melancholy.
Crop-heads from the shrubbery over the wall takes a peek at us,
and above the shrubs, a Fistula tree sticks out like a painter’s brush.
The yellows from the blossom used to be bright when in bloom, as if it wore a ring of halo,
now the fruits are bunchy and brown, hanging like inventory of copse.
It is a tepid morning; the tiny leaves from the tree give sleep a slight tremor
and prepare to meet the day;
Just as you like the day to be.
