Temple after temple
Every grey stone fighting to tell its tale
Of a king long forgotten
Name etched in the English alphabet in some faraway town
On some nondescript road
Where the flies hover near dyed fried treats
While little boys in cotton shorts
And girls in red ribbons and yellow bangles
Strain their eyes to look at jars of aniseed coated in sugar
While a harried dishevelled mother in a patched saree
Or a father with oily hair and a wobbling potbelly
Drag them to schools where they are taught
To write letters of leave to erstwhile Irish headmasters
Ending in ' faithfully yours, signature'.
Carved upon your lined face
In fragile haphazard strokes
Is a folly now regretted.
Hot pride now flustered
Cold veins thwarted by feeling
There is nothing to do except bless.
Age is redemption, experience calloused
The time was different then
When the eye could see and stop
At the epidermis tanned despite your threats,
Steel and fire sprayed your myopia
Where it now warms arthritic limbs.
Years turned, days revolved in unfelt patterns
That drew you in
And left you unheard, untouched.
Where was your mind, your cognizance?
Your identity, your music?
Lost, or never heard by the laity
Who sat around you in silent envy
Of sparkling womanhood, embellished, preened
While a girl sat nearby.
Watching the ants on the floor,
Horses in the sunset
That gaped in between the blinds,
Purple eyed.
I must stop where your line begins.
Fermented snack after another,
Each golden ray breathing fine warmth
Upon rivers of murk lurking in the wayside
Upon supine forms lost in calculated daydreaming
There was no remorse, no looking back
At a gaudy wayside sign reading ' diffin redy'
Highlighting every road trip undertaken in high summer,
The pungent odour of sugary coffee in silver tumblers
Punctuating every stop.
Now there is waffles and syrup
And tranquillity that makes the breath sharp
In expectation of stamping the existence
Of silent footsteps on a polished sidewalk.
The rancour and sullenness of a forced togetherness
The brushing of unknown fingers, sweaty forearms
The acrid foreign breath of aniseed and garlic
Sped away as fast as the salty foam
That splashed our feet tracing formless shapes
Amidst wet, plastic littered sand.
Home came long after the sound
Of your pulse pounding on my face.
