Every morn is deceptively prim
Until I stroll out to inhale a whiff
of tainted air and I'm transported to
days when it had a caressing fragrance.
I would roll a tyre with a stick on the road,
a pet pastime of my mates, down
a kilometre through honeycombed,
sparse bungalows without a care or looking over;
And am now darting eyes on either side
to cross a wide road, nerves in a jingle
to the hoot of wild cars, autos and bikes.
Be it the highway or labyrinth of lanes
eyes now swarm over a bevy
of matchbox homes where minds
are in a huddle;
I never look in, know what they are.
I fly back to the evenings
when I and my cousin would amble
across a quiet street, rambling
with the rare noise of scooting buses.
Years later it had disappeared!