To hear the nattering notes
of melody from carefree birds,
poised in majestic state,
upon the highest boughs.

 

To prosper, in sighting
the emerald grandiose, softly
spread in sheets
on eye-bright slanting knolls.

 

From the far place,
the fairy lightness
of that afternoon, shimmering
over the meadow-sweet pristine Church.
The King was Who?

 

The King was Who?
The well-born garden,
the roses, or, the tremulous trees
stretched out high in solidarity,
holding to their twisting roots!

 

2005

                          

Geeta Chhabra