Seated on a mat, on the lawn. My lawn, our lawn.
My lover is on the veranda. Seated too. Reclining, relaxed as he can ever be.
Guy is full of energy. Only time he relaxes is when he is in bed with me. Curled up, when we seem to be one person. He loves it, so do I, come to think of it.
It is sunset.
A very beautiful evening that I doubt I can do justice describing. But I will try.
Air on my skin is cool. Bordering on cold, but not quite. I think I may have a fever, slight. Malaria? Taken some time not getting the customary nudge from that one.
The sky is blue, really blue. And scattered all over it are the clouds. They should be white, I think. White and wind whipped. But as the sun disappears to the west, they are turning a blue grey, and will soon be invisible. There is a thin slice of moon at about one o’clock. Almost just a hint of it.
Its quiet. The crickets have not started singing. The wood ibis, flying in pairs, seem to be the commonest birds overhead. Far, far to the north, flying and glinting like a row of sparkling gems, is a V of egrets. White, steady fliers. Wonder how far they fly in a day? Remember as children we would watch them fly to wheresoever in the morning, and return in the evenings. These are returning. Are the satisfied? Are they returning home? To nest and youngling?
Children. The neighbourhood kids. Playing football, or some reasonable approximation to that. And shouting their heads off at any goal.
Last couple of days I have not really been feeling myself. Muse seems to have taken a back seat, for now. Yet there is that in the air which would call him from there.
Wish I could paint. But a painting cannot capture all of the beauty that I see. I feel it is impossible, to capture more than a momentary glimpse of this beauty. The fire of the setting sun, far in the west as it goes down in a blaze of gold flames. The trees, green, few dappled, since rain has been a constant companion for the last few months. The feel of a cool breeze on my skin. My head is a bit light, but still, I do appreciate that it is a beautiful evening.
A calm, a serenity seems to be the prevailing spirit around. And it does touch me. Deeply.
Did not feel like penning a poem, but the words have come. Memory of a single evening at home. In December, a very lovely evening that makes me yearn to paint, if only I could.
I cant, so, I write.