I do not know how to swim, yet the sea calls to me. I sit on the shore for days and years and let it watch me. It is peaceful. There is calm and there is chaos, there is violence and serenity, there is perfection and coarseness, there are pieces of paper that float on its coloured waters. They are sometimes blank, sometimes with a word, sometimes pictures, often they hold more wisdom than all the books in the world, sometimes they are the little boy's toys, sometimes they find their way here.
Someone knocked.
Early morning at Howrah Station.
Dewdrops still basking
in the solitude of the lone train.
Where is my father?
Am I to take his place?
Grey platform, still unscathed by the footsteps
of others.
We left with grey clouds
hovering above.
We reached a wet sidewalk
where my father waved
hello.
The car sputtered to an awkward silence.
We
sat
without stories
to recount.
Summer was over.
posted by peter pan at 2:07 pm
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