Hands

Who are those two vibrant figures
Drifting along in the restless moonlit night?
Twisting, pirouetting weaving magic.
Tilting at windmills, quixotic; eyes glowing bright?
The moonbeams strum, the lovers hum
the breeze whispers, the leaves lisp a love song
Hand in hand they traipse along.
Wheeling with the stars, their hearts on Mars
[Or wherever love- bloated hearts go
on restless, moonless nights.]

.
A foghorn sounds, and the clouds do a ballet.
By a sort of fascination impelled, the lovers now sway
on the new sun- lit day, ah, a lovely dawn.
Eyes fixed on the red wheel barrow in the lawn.

Then head towards a couple of wrought iron chairs
On the table, the sun spreads patterned warmth.
Occasionally hastening away to tweak the ears of the spunky clouds.
The breeze teases the twosome with icy precision
With the intimacy of the soap flirting with one’s skin.
They snuggle and cuddle, exchanging spicy words
passionately kissing away the day.
Every day, for many days.

And one day, four decades later
Scooping up the remains of yet another day, hand in hand
They reappear, knuckling away the sunbeams trapped in their eyes
And walk towards the chairs on knees arthritic
No longer tilting at windmills, quixotic.
Drugged by the seductive fragrance, they hug, still ecstatic
But peering at the world with eyes myopic.
The fragrance once again drugs their senses
Their past merges with the present and mangles the tenses.
Her hand upon his chest becomes his hand
He drifts into sleep, and her eyes close.
But she suddenly jerks out of her sleep
Shakes him out of his sleep to ask,
“Did you have your medicines, love?”
“Did you?” He asks, groggily
And then they snuggle closer, like silken threads
In a treasured tapestry.

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About Santosh

An educationist with a passion for writing , having published some novels for young adults, some essays and some poems. My poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi will soon be published .

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