The ceiling balloons with
tickles from a million
drops of passion giving
goose bumps on Her belly;
and then the let-out
in an impulse lasting
a couple of man-hours,
the moments of gold, worth.
In a thatched time machine,
near a tiny steam engine
huffing to keep me warm,
the spirited guard setting the tone,
fresh brew - his lady keeping me firm.
And those days under an open roof;
when kids played ship-builders
and dad played stone mason;
memoirs smiling from the mist
rising at the feet,
an hologram, coloured.
And I shiver in this sliver from yonder.
(South-western monsoon in Chennai, in June! Am happy with this unexpected splash of love. Aren't you?)
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