Interpretation
The words fell,
and I almost knew they would,
like the withered leaves of autumn,
carrying a silence within them
that looked pitifully at my face.
And that was your answer.
And I see the sun melting at the western
horizon,
a grey melancholy wrapping the empty benches
of the parks,
their gloom unveiled through a high pitched
song sung by a blind beggar,
and a fleet of buses and cars huffing and
puffing up the city roads.
I walk along
see the image of a home crumbling, receding, fading
I reach the place I live in ,
I climb the stairs, and click open the door,
- step into a void.
Empty Bench, Monterey -- Reid Woodward
water colour
The haunting tune
of monsoon,
an old craving sprouts from beneath the mulch
,
the rain sodden memories
like dense ponderous clouds
of a far away land,
inch closer and closer,
then burst and collapse.
I breathe in the moisture of the air .
I look out
and see the intriguing wet darkness ,
my desolate lane
the blurred light of the street lamp
and the sharp arrows of rain creating a water
colour ,
beautiful yet plaintive.
A face is overlapped by another
and yet another ...
and all these faces are mine ,
brush strokes of unspoken words ,
the smudged hues of their pain
painting the contours
of my desires,
and erasing them
again.
Monsoon -- Ida Kendall
