Eternal Summer - Scribbles

When the Sun Peaks

The araliya tree in my garden,
a pessimistic, languid specimen,
sighing through its naked branches for most of the year,
is now in full bloom,
adding splashes of colour to the bright outside.

A harsh, impatient breeze,
hot as the town and cheerful as a river,
rips through windows and curtains and dry curls of hair,
carrying with it bird-calls
and happy shouts and fiery cries of passion.

The silence of the weathered white walls,
sheltering their burden from the sun,
littered with red may-flower petals which fall from trees like heart-fragments,
nestled in foliage-
is shattered like a summer sky in a thunderstorm.

Dark-haired, ribboned heads
line the balconies with lively eyes
of schoolgirls emboldened by the joyous spirit of a vivid April,
ignoring the old teachers' cries;
as below, the boys roar, cheering for the cricket match of the year.

And from among the deep green treetops,
emerging from nooks and corners,
ghosts of schoolgirls past dance by in white frocks and bare feet
tickling young hearts,
setting spirits ablaze like a summer sun.

When the sun peaks over the little city,
and flower-laden, sun-baked things
rush through the streets, throwing love and youth to the wind
to watch them sparkle into life;
Not a girl or boy or tree can forget their summer in Colombo.