Conversing over fields with pineapple laden borders
Embeds sonorousness in one's voice,
And coupled with gadgets, of a toddling-suckling familiarity,
Digs a clear tunnel through even a raspy telephone
My grandma opened the tunnel yesterday,
My mother at the other end, and I, only ears,
A by-listener, overheard the landline conversation
'The battery would be dead today, this may well be the
Last call for weeks.
Palm thrones of king dew lowered themselves to beggar domains,
Coconut trees on the bank had leaned in over the channel
As if erecting bridges everyway
Cemented steps descended into the channel,
The lowest could be seen two days prior,
Now even the highest had been swallowed by rainwater
Acres of rubber flattened,
Bar a score- odd strands on a balded head,
Land wasted, as rubber plantations do not reimburse Gaia.
Now, I won't see the endless stretch
Of rubber trees ejaculating in the morning,
Most probably tapioca and dispersed bananas
Prithvi's revenge
For drilling her sky and thawing her poles.
~Ajay
3/12/17
A/N-
We got a call from my grandmother a few days ago, telling us about the cyclone- Ockhi, which had ravaged our native village of Kanyakumari and brought life to a standstill, she described the scene in a sorrowful tone that prompted me to write this. the conditions, thankfully, are getting better day by day
