Sweet Daughter Mine
Thu, 09 Jul 2015
On my desk she perches... eyes
of ambergris, amidst a sea of red
and white, posing with 'the worst
yet best, brass band in Mumbai',
she wrote on a rare, and treasured
the players grouped around her; she
in yellow blouse, rucksack on her back,
and they in red – plumed helmets shone
Almost as if they knew time, for her
was running short – young as she was;
hence this trip...this 'English lady – hair
the colour of straw, with a wonky smile'.
Only now it fades –
her precious italic hand, stolen
by the mad march of relentless days.
Such strange creatures we are, but
we’re all the same – pictures we keep;
like eating honey
off a switchblade knife.