I watch her gnarled hands
deftly string together
jasmines
fragrant, milky white jasmines
its scent wafting across
enchanting passers-by
a small assortment of flowers
jasmines, marigold, champa
lotus, hibiscus and basil leaves
add colour to her basket
she’s been at it
from as long as I remember
at the same spot
outside the temple
her betel-stained lips shooting
a jet of red
accurately into
an old tin she keeps
out of view
time has changed nothing
everything remains as it was
the same expression
the same posture
the same movements
the same colourful flowers
fresh
red, yellow, pink and white
the same heady scents
yet
the fragrance
and colours
shy away from her life
leaving it
colourless
odourless
stale
A flawless portrait of an elderly flower seller leads to the uncovering of the ultimate irony.This excellent poem is a good example of ”unification of sensibility.”
Thanks Vijay. Honoured!
I loved the precision and economy of words as they so adroitly rendered such an incisive and all too vivid portrait of the subject.
This poem revived the memory of an old lady sitting near a temple selling flowers. Aptly captured the scene and made it more live with your brilliant poetic skill. Enjoyed it Elizabeth.