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The Pastorale That Isn't

The subtle play of light
on the tamhan blossoms:
violet turns pink turns lavender;

on a pre-monsoon June morning,
a crow contemplates its nest
overlooking white mounds of salt
by the pans and the raptor –
 perhaps a fishing eagle –
a black speck starring
the day sky.

And then there
are the gulmohar and amaltas
with pods like ugly brown penises,
their spring crowns thinking
and last the welcome canopy
of the rain-tree.

I sigh.
It could have been an idyll,
a pastorale even,
but for the  electricity pylons,
the rows of false ashoka
and the dour grey of a building
under construction.
I'm in a belching taxi,
late to work again.

(Published in Setu Bilingual Journal, August 2017)

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