Outside it is damp, spectral.
It is so now every morn in Chennai,
infamous for its grudging monsoon.
The gossamer clouds seem to have
softened to the ancient climes.
There was a time when ear-ripping
thunder would stun, bewilder
Make one wonder who had
met his unseemly end in the hard plains!
Now there is rippling thunder,
heart twitting to the scent of pouring rain.
An ideal cradle for the Muse to rock!
Morn would wink its arrival to me
With rare cacophony of winged noises,
Pigeons, cuckoos and crows in a row!
The city bristles hot, prickly and steaming
But is always encased in soothing November.
I hearken to the past when
women trudged to draw water
from the well in another home,
With caked mud flakes in their own!
Clouds have changed the skyscape!
The monsoon is rarely dodgy and benign.
And the cacophony sounds a lot mellifluous!
The Muse rocks with a beatific smile.