Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table
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Tippling down from the eaves,
like a wine glass overflowing its rim;
it undulates.
At times trailing a path from the roof,
At others cascading down wilfully;
It surges.
The sodden dusk bemoans, decries
Separation from its lover, the sun;
It pelts.
Sometimes it beats a staccato rhythm
tattooing its presence on the window;
it rages.
At others like a soft eiderdown
It wraps in an embrace; in a mist
It coats.
Sometimes it serenades the night
Sings to it, lets it intrudes as sleep;
It lulls.
At others it thrums, drums and batters,
Pummeling the night into discord;
It roars.
Then spent; it sighs, deeply, and with
A profundity it slackens its shackles;
It sleeps.
