Between history and time,
the old chimney pots have died,
turning into owls;
they hoot with tiredness,
every time the wind blows.

 

The old chimney pots:
three of them,
fixed in equal solid piles,
are the living dead,
of a desolate fate.

 

A family had once garlanded
the house,
from where the old chimney pots
hoot like tired owls,
every time the wind blows.

 

Years, long long gone by,
Joey, baby Sissy, Ted and Rose
were signets of pride, here.
Willful Dutchess nearly always bawled
her canine-cranium off,
when the hearth lit,
and the three chimney pots smoked.

 

There were wonder-patches of contentment,
the sorts that never wilted;
the chimney pots, were all-singing,
dauntless — come frost, come rain.

 

Now, riled by history and time,
the old chimney pots have died,
turning into owls;
they hoot with tiredness,
every time the wind blows…
 
2005

                          

Geeta Chhabra