Monday, September 01, 2014


On the outskirts of the jungles of West Bengal, I awoke to the sounds of the pitterpatter of rain in the trees; it was all a mirage, the sky was clear and blue and it only the residue rains from the night's monsoon still trickling down the large leaves.

I spent the day dreaming of new windmills.

That evening, I became a goat-whisperer, as I shielded a kid from a pack of trouble-making dogs. I can only imagine what the local thought when they saw a white ghost carrying a black goat down the village road.

Across the wide monsoon skies, the sun set gold, peach and salmon pink over the green mid-harvest rice fields.

The night descended over West Bengal like a purple wine benediction, and the communion night was filled with the cricket symphony.

1 comment:

John Brown said...

Paul -- Have you considered switching from pubic (pardon the typo) diplomacy to poetry full-time? Verlaine -- and your Don -- doubtless would have approved ... :) Best, John