July rains;
The spitting July rain
When tiny tadpoles leapfrog to life,
The smoky sky above
Obscures its pristine blue blanket – slowly
As the clouds above melt, I then remember
Grandma’s lullabies.
We used to shiver,
As the deafening thunder roared outside
We jumped on to Grandma’s lap;
Her frail body shook,
As we all jostled for comfort zones around her;
Our droopy eyelids slowly dropping curtains,
As we all go into a trance,
And Grandma’s lullabies took us far away into fairyland;
Long before we get embalmed
By her mystical tales in her wobbly voice;
The July rains have stopped now,
It’s November, and we had just bade autumn goodbye,
The clear blue sky has now managed
To pierce itself through its thick smoky blanket of clouds;
I search for Grandma
But she’s not there on her moth-eaten bed.
It’s July again, and I could still hear her
Hum those lullabies somewhere far away,
I yearn to be in her lap,
As the thunder roars once again,
Pelting hail on our supine roof.
I hid myself under a blanket,
And lay motionless till I realise it’s day break.