21 The Palette
from his palette
the lord paints the evening
grey and cream
light plays on leaves
as branches blow back and forth
birds fly from bank to bank
as temple bells ring out
an ox-cart
heard not seen
heads for home at last
a light rain falls
too little too late
It is late morning, the clouds are low on the horizon, the sun is shining in the blue sky, and all is bright and clear; the hedge and the trees are glowing with a translucent green. The air is full of bees and butterflies; we’ve just seen the start of the butterfly season and so many are fluttering through the orchard. As they dance in the light, the beauty of the colour and pattern of their wings is highlighted. There is a red shoeflower tree blossoming forth nearby, and as it speeds on its way through life, one small, insignificant, and infinitely beautiful creature comes and hovers, and drinks of the nectar for a few seconds, never more than it needs to dance some more. On a lemon tree a colony of about a dozen brown and white butterflies have made their home, and they hang from the leaves and branches at rest from the play of life. There is a great stillness and quiet and each moment is a wonder unto itself, there is no looking for a continuation and therefore there is no conflict.
as I turn
a boy is stood
head clean-shaven
unsure of himself
through the trees
blows the wind
and stirring himself
he steps forward
quiet he comes
then ‘jay prabhu’
I raise my hands
and see a tear
in those eyes
the world’s sorrow
wells up
ready to fall
we come together
and hand to head
a touch of love
before we part