Monday, 1 April 2019


by Shikhandin

Sudden summer’s lemon yellow trims,
sweet grass beneath sun, a playful breeze.
Books, friends. And hats with broad brims.
The fragrance of dancing, fresh young leaves.

There the raven’s septic throated beat
shatters the rhythm of chirp and trill.
Pinions flutter, swoop and retreat,
distant flute song saunters downhill.

A brook babbles, burbles, falls, on its way.
Crabgrass scratches careless palms and shins.
Rainbows rise above feathery spray.
Eyes grow wide, mouths agape on chins.

Weeds give way to webbed feet, snapping beaks.
Bubbles become ripples. Anxious croaks abound
among wet eyes watching luminous shapes streak
past silver waters with neither warning nor sound.

Hunters amass beneath the hum and buzz
of a dragonfly flotilla’s gossamer allure.
Butterflies flit, flash on blossoms and buds
and flung down hats sit on green velour.

Now dreams pour down from that upturned azure goblet,
into the centre of my being, as warm as mead.
But I am already heady with the echoes of poets  
who too, strayed outdoors in such weather. To read.

* * * * *

Shikhandin is the nom de plume of an award winning Indian writer, who writes for both adults and children. Books include among others, Immoderate Men: Stories published by Speaking Tiger, India and Vibhuti Cat an illustrated book for children, published by Duckbill. For more on Shikhandin you can visit her Amazon page: and her Facebook page:

1 comment:

  1. If it weren't yet so damned cold out I, too, would be out there sitting on the velour reading, and feeling Nature come alive around me.