A Song 214

An yesterday's newspaper 

of a woman

in torn headlines, 

sweeps clean a grave 

under a trumpet tree 

with today's yellow flowers,

at the Church 

early evening.

Lights a candle 

holding up an 

evening sun and breeze. 

Crosses self, a habit, 

taught when she was a 

Parle Kisme, 

as prayers flow 

as kids from belling schools. 

Knees down, 

head down, 

reads an aged post card.......

with green scribbles,  

as a Sister stands by. 

Mary,

worked at a post office,

now no more. 

A morning, a postman,

passed on a post card

reading:

Let's meet at 4 

under the peepal 

at the Church gate.

Mary knew the man, 

keeling at pews in the 

Church. 

They were a few then 

and few knew few. 

That was when 

calendars breezed on 

broken teethed walls. 

Clocks rode cycles.

Mary waited.  

Today, 

Mary folds a smile 

and post card, 

into a purse, 

her mother had shared. 

Sets up on her feet, 

hobbles away...

She comes daily, 

says the Sister.

 

r