I crossed past the Western ghats
Yesterday over the curling mountain pass
Driving far too very fast
Seeing on the mist laden hill tops
The Autumn Reds blooming last
Leaves colouring the evergreens
Evening falls over the mountains tall
And the worlds of men seem forever small
Scattered over this ancient rocky wall
On every corner pass a truck stalled
To the roadways a simple thrall
Lost waiting in Pan’s evening hall
Voiceless upon this early ball
The rain begins to fall
Tag: nature and man
In the valley of the leopard
The dawn had just begun gaining on the night, when the leopard spotted the hermit trudging through the thick wet soil.
Slow rays and opaque shadows began to form around them. The leopard shifted on the tree truck with only his eyes staying where they were. The dew on the leaves glittered before crashing down in a shudder.
The rays were pale in this morning, no colours tinged the east, no flush warmed the dawn. The coldness left everything in a semi-translucent glow. The morning came as slowly as a heavy treasure box being opened. But the light was weak, like the monsoon had almost won, extinguishing the Sun.
Ragged winds wheezed, stirring the night clouds. They fluttered but did not stray like an over-confident flock of birds. The hermit looked up with a sudden jerk that surprised him, an unexpected spasm had jumped up on his back.
The sunlight filled slowly leaving a colourless silver gleaming grasp around the horizon. Under these delicate vapours the earth was sodden, puddles exploding over drowning grass, the earth giving way and moving with ease. It clung to paws and feet, gathering distressingly over the tips of claws and toes.
The night birds were still alight, rushing under the wings of the biggest trees that still had clumps of darkness lingering within them. The sun was then risen, a white clear disk, tintless, almost chilling to look at. It remained half hidden behind the dark crest of a hill, looking down solemnly down the whole length of the narrow dale. A dirty trail followed the hermits laboured steps growing ragged and uneven as it came closer to him.
A small grass plot surrounded by scanty brown stalks, flowerless let itself be glimpsed briefly. Behind it was a whitewashed mud wall, bare and stained by water logging. Around it were trees gracefully gathered and rising around the cottage. All alone in the dale they looked imposing. It held an air of seclusion and dipped out of sight.
The hermit only saw himself cast down, his muddy hands over the little flowers of weeds, and thorns pressing into his hands, the dew gathered on them began to mix with blood that at once rushed all around him as he lost all sense around his neck feeling a heavyness on his back, firm nails begin driven deep inside him.
Falling ants
The shadowy bark stands
Pure wonder
In its hollow
There are ants outside my house that you can only see at night. You’d never notice their orange bodies in daylight. When it’s dark you can see marching troops and lines but not on the street.
Right above the roads and the rats that scamper below, my balcony offers a view looking down onto the power lines. Otherwise innocuous, there seems to be a host of enterprising ants that have realized its potential as a kind of fortress. Between the shades of two trees and three houses these ants make their way across the power line highways.
In the dark, the crows are no longer around but perhaps the bits of food they’ve scavenged remains on the lines for the ants to collect. Or maybe there are greater concerns for the ants that I cannot see where the lines obscured are by leaves. This season there are even moths that circle the street light and float above the ants like guardians.
These red ants leisurely making their way across are not like the smaller black ones scampering around crumbs and corners around my crowded apartment. The ones outside are noticeable less Neurasthenic.
Wherever their nest is or whatever happens to the unfortunate souls that slip and fall, what must be unfathomable heights, down to the street is something we can only dream about. What would an ant from the tress and power lines make of the ground and how impossibly far above their usual routes are. Could ant see that far, and catch the moths in the light?
Kite string
Kite string lightening sun leading the way the winds have come by the cracked window with freshly washed hair I see the yard, mother, clearing the clothes line leafy faces, on well water out over the fields and flower beds spring rain on the harvest dripping down planet dusk small talk after droplet burials in the flowing stream
Pebble Moon
Mayan ruins
The snails
They color the stone
Back and forth.
Sounds like breeze
Under one umbrella
Trailing lights
On a mountain path.
Rivers
Red dragonfly
Drop a flower
Into fire
For another year.
Burning rivers
In one dark line.
Here and there
Yanked from the clothes line
The sound a sheet
Becoming thunder.
Lost at last
In old grown forests
And the sound of streams.
Rijul Ballal 