Poetry

Two Poems

FOR THE SUMMER Leaving the swaddled baby Sleeping radiantly Tucked up in her cradle, And Sal About to lie and down and rest, On a hot November evening I went running into the forest. The eucalypts rang With the fire alarm clangour Of cicadas keening And hardly anything sang: There was no point, The bug lamentations Were everywhere dominant. On the side of a tall hill I looked into the blue That had seemed indelible But was now growing pale And saw dark wands Weaving to and fro On cryptic errands. No, they were swifts, Down from the Himalaya For…

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