A Song 137

Lady nursing a raindrop
on Old Man's bald head.
'Will there be raindrops in
Birmingham for India-Pakistan
cricket match?' asked Old Man.
'Where is Birmingham,' asked
Lady.
'Dont know,' replied Old Man.
Like many things Old Man does not know,
is afraid of.
Night under the banyan,
Old Man dreamt
of his mother leading him to
school with a wood-bordered slate;
his returning home
with the wood frame and no slate.
'What does that mean?' he asked Lady.
Lady hushed a crow sipping
a raindrop on Old Man's bald head.
'Am not a vatic,' added Lady.
'Think me am going to die,
afraid to die,' remarked Old Man.
'You wont be there
upstairs or groundstairs;
to care,' added Old Man,
a shiver.
'But you have to be there,
somewhere,
thats for sure,'
reminded Lady.
'Will you miss me,' asked Old Man.
'Ah, life is a catch dropped;
a ball missed;
a regret,
to be spat out,' said Lady.
'So am I a cricket ball?' asked Old Man.
'Yes, a new, an old,
a lost, a sold ball,'
said Lady.
'Cricket balls have no gods,
they have Lady Luck;
like you have me forever,'
said Lady,
prompting Old Man into a
Sunday joy.