While he was sleeping (Poems from my trip to Mc.Leod’s Ganj)

We were at St.John’s church. Just A and I. If mist could be melodious, it was. The graves were somber, cold, and peaceful. Beyond that, there were large, tall trees that played with the fog the way long fingers work through yarn.

A was tired, so he put his head on my lap and slept.

I was inspired, so I wrote.

I]

There are solid cubes of rocks
Parts of an unfinished wall
Wonder what they’re there for
To alleviate or to stall
Passage of lazy time
Or quivering lapses of history
Or hush and give a logical end
To sudden bursts of mystery.



II]

The scene here
Is mechanized to be a poet’s pen
The trees weave stories of ‘How’s’
The clouds sift through texts of ‘When’
But fodder for poetry
Comes either to the imaginative
Or to the brave
Not too many
Tread to find tumult
In a quiet, historical grave.


III]

I keep writing verses
As my husband is in slumber
Amidst ancient memory
And seemingly vintage lumber
In the fashion of a Byron’s poem,
His breaths leave a trail of nuances taken
From pools of dreams and memories, stirred and shaken,
But now, I simply wait
For my sonnet to awaken.