Santosh Bakaya writes

THE FOG

PART ONE

Section 4

The river stopped murmuring, probably asleep. 

Or maybe it was in a self -introspection deep? 

The voice had now become a whimpering moan. 

Huffing and puffing, I tripped on a pointed stone. 

Probably taking pity at my plight, the fog lifted.  

And, benevolently, a new life I was gifted. 

The foamy surf of the river was like whipped cream. 

I sighed, but the forest was rent by another scream.

A silhouette of a boy appeared, curly hair tangled.

He mumbled as though his words were strangled.  

His limpid eyes seemed to have a certain eloquence.

His poor heart yearned for a sympathetic audience. 

"We used to meet here near the river, you know.

To her every wish I did willingly and lovingly bow.” 

Wistfully, towards the bank, he pointed a finger. 

My eyes peered in the distance, and there did linger. 

Suddenly startled, his eyes darted around madly.

A tear from his eye escaped, I looked on sadly. 

“I just felt her touch, she is here," he muttered. 

I tried to make sense of the words thus uttered.

"What grace she oozed, ah, I can feel her presence.” 

He sniffed around, as though smelling her essence.  

"Look, look can you not see her sitting on the boulder,

Face smiling, her small head placed on my shoulder?"

On a pine tree a tiny bird was about to happily preen.

The names engraved on the bark had lost their sheen. 

Towards the tree he looked with a fervent appeal . 

His palpable pain I could almost touch and feel.

 

 Foggy Day -- Judy Silver