Poetry

He used to tread lightly as if
walking on concrete, barefoot―
to capture the apologetic
colours of rainbow in lake.
 
A spinning top, he wanted
to float on water and touch
the soft contours in depth―
wrestling with waves.
 
A dark sky was hovering
around. Something was rising
from the black hills, as if
on fire. I had never seen before―
 
the golden moon, rising. Two
song birds darting to and fro
as if in great agony to save
the nestlings from the lynx.