Home at last

10-05-2005 A.D.

In its own parlance the early zephyr awakens me .
The lapwing chirps and flies swiftly across the tree.
The ruddy sky and the auburn soil bestir my senses.
People squabbling at the tap don't reach a consensus.
The tabloid lands in the balcony's attic with a thud
While a harridan curses children gamboling in mud.
I yawn and gaze at the seductive pillow on my bed.
I prefer to scurry in to perform my ablutions instead.
Later I'm guided by the pleasant aroma of incense.
In the kitchen, for rising early, I get my recompense.
Clutching a cup of hot milk, I move to the terrace.
Sprawled, I lie on the mat, the warm air I embrace.
The larkspurs in bloom apprise me of what I miss.
A cadenza prompts that there's no place like this.

Note: If anyone is just on the verge of concluding that my job is only knitting together words from the thesaurus I say nay. These works are straight out of my idiolect and I select words that are befitting the imagery running in my mind.