By-Janhavi Thorat
A grim ding dong, the mornings sing a song,
A song so heavy- not a trace of glee.
Old feet shuffling with pretty shoes on, the morning takes her to the corner of her lawn.
The fountain comes to life and sprinkles upon-
The flowers that have bloomed; it’s well past dawn.
She takes a whiff- one by one-
of amaranths, zinnias, and alyssums.
She then turns inside to spend the day, with pots and pans and tidying away.
The mailbox is empty, but today is different;
Dependents’ pension comes on the first of every month.
A tall vast manor, souvenirs decking every corner-
Corners telling stories of lives lived and lost, fleeting feet move past fast.
She looks past the corners, her bittersweet horror, two lads and a husband- lost to the war.
Today she prepares their relished meals,
Arranges the trolley and pushes the wheels.
The amaranths are waiting for their favourite fondue, the zinnias are demanding their favourite stew;
The alyssums grow over the younger of her lads, her sweetest, the easiest, with no food fads,
She pours at his roots, her favourite wine,
And calls a night at half past nine.
The flower-graves shiver in the cold,
She’ll join them soon, she’s getting too old.
She sleeps in her manor, tonight is long,
Till the morning wakes her up with another grim ding dong.
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This poem has been published in the book 'The Last Flower Of Spring'. Buy the paperback copy on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/y9sydnxn