Lost and Found

I scribbled this down more than three years ago on a shadowy afternoon...and I thought it utterly lost till I found every word kept by a friend. And now its a little like looking at my old photograph and recognising this feature and that of the face while others seem to have changed..and I still cant figure out a title for it!


It is often a terrible silence
from years of blowing in greengold forests
from breezing and curling softly, interminably, around blades of grass-
past desolation, past memory-
it leaves an impression of things that have turned nomad within
(piggy on the railway tracks, picking up stones; I’d have saved her if i could)
and the world that keeps spinning off at a tangent.

perhaps, it is easy not to remember after all
(Poor piggy, lying amid her shattered bones and her scattered stones.. i wish she had not ventured out just so far)

easier,(with your gypsy arms) to make an arc ,to make the world
add on to it some colored beads with letters painted on to them
( take care round the corners - the red and blue often merge and pierce them in the center, very carefully,or they shatter)
and by and by you will get the hang of it. its the simplest thing,really.
To make an impression of things-undisturbed by wet paint.

But this greengold silence is not too bad
It doesn’t mold, like the wet outsides of newer rock
Doesn’t thicken, like the vacuous insides of other, older ones.
its better this way, not simple, neither easy
While the world keeps spinning off at a tangent