Moon Mind
Stars look like birds
Feet tread softly
Walking the night path
Whisper of wind urges me on.
Fat Drops
The muggy afternoon invites the evening in
For its release
Heavy, ripe clouds long to burst
And spill their pearly fruits
On the city.
Thirsty soil and twitching grass.
Eyes search the darkening sky,
Wondering when the showers will come.
Until the low rumble,
The spitting and spotting
Of fat drops on the pavements
Becomes a gushing monsoon
That washes the sweaty heat
Into the gutters
Leaving the smell of hot wet roads
And damp leaves dripping.
Pebble
Pebble on my path, you trap my toe and make me question which way I am going.
Pebble, you set me free – my fingers curl around your coolness, which sips the warmth of the sun.
When I hold you, I am taken into a quiet place beyond myself.
In and around myself, an openness that is always there but hidden by the noise.
Pebble, take me to the seashore: the edge of the land, where the water licks the sand.
Your home, you are set there in stone but move in strong tides, rattling over your brothers and sisters.
Pebble, I keep you on my desk where you remind me of what it is to be quiet and alone, without questions or solutions.
I write because…
I write because when I write blood runs on to the page and forms rivulets that merge into an ocean. A sea – a jumble of words with all their twists, turns, curves and corners.
Words that sit together comfortably like old grandmothers. Words that curl around each other, scaly like lizards’ tails. Words that talk, words that sing. Threads like guitar strings, each a unique note that resonates on the page.
I write because I need to, because my heart beats louder when I think about it.
I write because writing is my romance, the love affair I have been engaged in since childhood.
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Chasing a Canal
Prologue:
As I walked up Gray’s Inn Road, the rain came down in thick streams. The dampness working its way through the inadequate jacket that I had borrowed from my Mum’s coat rack.
I heard a slap and looked down to find the box of overpriced, organic salad that I had bought at the train station had fallen through the bottom of the paper bag, its contents of grated beetroot and carrot spilling on the paving stones.
I was late. I was hungry. The baby strapped to my chest had raindrops running down his cheeks. And, I was on my way to have root canal surgery for the second time in a week.
———————
Heavy swing of doors
Shoes squeak on lino
Low buzz of voices
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roshnii 