The last of your memories may have escaped
The white paint on the gate is still the same
but the years have faded it along with my face
Walking down the road we followed the hearse
A son holding a mother’s hand
You both came from far away
Strong and mythical
Now frail and small
In my imagination I hear Shāstriya Sangīt
Drifting over the banks
of a mighty famous river
Mighty river
now a lake full of ducks
I can see the rugby posts and hear the steam trains
The slide as tall as before
Every time I approach with a note-book
the chances seem further away
Close my eyes and hear distant drums
The warm sun is calling me back to my ancestral home
©John de Gruyther 2014
Wow, this was an amazing piece, sad but reflective.
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Thank you, a piece borrowed from a longer poem I wrote a few years ago..
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amazing! please do take a look at my blog for my views of life in India. Thank you.
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Thank you and I will do…
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