ANJANA BASU
GHOSTS

Winter and the bitter fogs
Late morning sun. The year
On the brink of age and death -
A decade since the blossoming of a life.
Eyes like water bloomed to stars
On a summer night among the faces.
Things happen among faces
That are hidden in corners,
Darkened public rooms :
Haven may be found in darkened public rooms.
Walk through winter carrying a letter,
Footsteps light over falling leaves,
Yellow, dusty winter leaves,
To be caught for wishes
Yellow in the late, yellow sun
Devouring the fish fog.
Follow a flash of blue in the smoke
The tail of a shawl.
Illusion, that's all, in the end.
The moonlight silvers everything.
Colours grow the same
Cold and ghostly in a winter glass.
Shadows reach out, fall thick
Around the warmth of a bed.
Colour dies and motions change.
What flashed blue in the fog,
What figure ran by ?
The grey parting for a chink of sun
And the shimmer of water in the air
Flash of water and sun
The seasons run, fast skimming feet
Past the leaves.
Nothing returns.
One warms ones hands cupped at the sun,
Eats an orange in the sun
Lips hard against the pulp.
Sun glances down the quiet lane
Over the red buildings.
Footsteps patter past the leaves
Ahead, a flash of blue, then dimness.
The years flash in a moment in the sun,
Through the dust wind and the faces.
You cup an orange to warm your hands,
Draw the shawl close.
Lost letters and fallen leaves fly past
Ten years of dust.
Coming from childhood to age,
The incompleteness of a life.
The eye seeks blue in the shimmering air
Through the smoke and dust,
The glimmering mist that spirals
Dusty gold in the wind,
Torn apart in the wind,
To a vision turned tree.
Ghosts cry at the end
Of sunny winter streets
And one never meets them again.