Posted by: Pucadyil | February 3, 2010

The River

The river, draped in dirty green moss
flows under the old bridge on the narrow road
the journey’s end, a mile down is the jetty
where it submerges in the salty backwaters

Standing by the bank, holding my grandson’s hand
I remembered a time when I was his age
and used to stand here and stare at with dread
the dark green depth right under the bridge

the paddy fields on the west are gone
on the bank there are huts, one nudging the next
smoke from the cooking fires seep through the roof
gray snakes dancing in the afternoon wind

a few boats, tied, rise and fall with the waves, nodding
as the river tells them stories of its rebellious youth
swollen with the torrent of the monsoon rains
razing the side banks and drowning the paddies

The river now, stagnant pool of detritus, decay
waiting for death, I note with grief
the old men sitting on the bank nod in agreement
as I turn away, adding another loss of the past


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