A Song 237

April suns
reluctant to relent
scorch pebbled palms.
Lady, Old Man
below Karuna banyan
on Karuna Road,
count on frail fingers
time, leaves, cars, bikes.
Taking breaks,
Old Man pulls out letters,
broken, cracked, wounded
alphabets,
in wrinkled smiles,
from hip pockets.
Lady,
yanks out
dried, fragrant sadaphules,
from faded frock,
worn over years.
Old ghosts
unlocking cackles
peep from banyan holes.
Did they trade in letters,
flowers and ghosts?
Birds into knocking nests
for the two to drop
eggs with dreamy yolk,
ahead of rains.
Eggs have no buyers,
dreams hatched no takers.
Deva, the donkey,
parked with two umbrellas
stuck to ears,
on alert,
sheltering rains,
when and if they come. 
They were like that,
They are like that,
They will be like that,
says friend Rose, a nun
lazing on Karuna Road.