Summer Dreams

A blessing came and rested
On my shoulder
A feather that once
Had spanned the vast skies
That had kissed the clouds.
It brought a companion along
A poem it was
Written in thin strands
Of wet rains and sunbeams.

A summer morning opened itself
Like a fragrant fresh page
In the fronds of a thicket
A lonely black cuckoo
All summer he had lingered
Waiting for his mate
With tunes of forgotten songs
With the blowing rose
And its fading petals.
Calling from dawn to dawn
In hope of warm feathers
That would descend on him
Like nests lined with down
Like food down his throat
Like mother’s plumage
That once smelled of crows.

With warm afternoons
Perched in mango groves
Uttering many a lonely note
That often sounded cacophonic
Drowsed by flowers and bees
Slept his mate.
She knew not of his presence.
Over miles of windless noons
She had heard his voice travel
Like the touch of first raindrops
Later bursting into torrents.
When the trees had unabashedly
Erupted with passionate flowers
She had waited in silence.
His voice sounding redolently
Painfully like tomorrows.

Soon, the pangs of separation
Had grown to a longing
That stayed like a rhythmic ache
Heaving with love
The heart brimming with need
Warm feathers too far away
With uninvited prospects
From eager trespassers
She pined.
Other friends had found
Songs that suited their souls.
Somewhere suffered her mate
Calling like an empty cloud
His soul scattered in the breeze.
He was near at hand..
She could have
Lifted her droopy lids
Dragged her broken heart
To his threshold.
She knew not what she was waiting for
Neither did he.
He felt the south wind for traces
Of her fragrance.
Some aeons ago
He had known it.
He had greedily dragged at it
Like a craving for sadness.

It was time.
They had to begin a life.
A distant tree had waited
For their arrival
For many, many summers
All hearts had sensed
Their lurking unseen love.
They met.
It was only cooing and warmth.
Cuckoos cry songs not tears.
His melodies and her impatience
Mingled into a happy harmony
Seasons evolved to make home
For love and new feathers.
They traveled to a distant tree
Where a home they would make
The tree would nest their joys
The offspring of their togetherness.
The tree and its roots
Would hold them through ages.
Through seasons of rain and cold
Its branches would kiss their heads
Fondling them to her bosom.
There would be baby cuckoos
And stammering songs.

He had seen other birds make nests
She was full of his future.
He knew he had to love her
Guard her
From rain and angry eagles.
He had seen twigs, cotton and leaves
How nests were lined with layers of love
He had to make her one.
With swift time fluttering off
On fickle wings
There was no nest
No linings of love
No twigs to nuzzle the nest.
But she was there and so was he.
So was their future
Dangling by a filament of love.

Now there were nests
Of many many birds
In crannies and hidden holes
And eggs and baby birds.
Now their future was
A hazy bewilderment.
There was pain
She paced in agony and instinct
Nest after nest
She laid them to sleep
Fragments of their togetherness
Fragments of their future
She forgot.

There was no tree now
Concrete twigs had melted
Merging into nothingness
All leaves fluid
Had run into one another
Like water colours.
There was clouded memory
That held all hues intact.
In restlessness and pain
The cuckoos saw
There was no tree
All branches and boughs
Flowers and pollen grains
Leaves with slender veins
Had evanesced in the rains
There had been no tree
With a feather and a poem
They had only been dreams.

2 thoughts on “Summer Dreams

  1. Though not fit to be a critic of u’re writings, curious as to why most of u’re poems are melancholy in nature

  2. Like Keats said, “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought”

    I think I write well when I am sad and emotional. It is also inevitably a form of sublimation. 🙂

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