White Noise and Black Scarecrows
It’s been a mere three weeks
since she dearly departed,
and I have been here,
dreadfully awaiting
her unwelcome arrival.
Today, she decided to join me
for a walk across the farmer’s
vineyard, but I knew
her sweet tooth would mar
her peculiar taste buds:
she did have a few
ripe and seedless grapes
wherever she found the time,
but never in the way I did;
never in the form of
sparkling fine wine.
After a short breeze
through the scorching sun,
we sat down beneath a shade
of deciduous green, and as
I slipped into a gown of
drunken slumber, she morphed
into a squawking black bird, and
flew right into my daydream:
I stood still, staring at the
stickman swaying on the horizon.
The wind blew eastwardly and
suddenly, she was over there
with him, perched lightly
on the corner of his cold shoulder.
I’d always wanted to know how
to make all her feathers disappear,
but today, I learnt that even
a scarecrow has its own kind
of intrinsic fears.
When a single drop of rain
trickled down the crown of my head
to the holes on my feet,
I woke up from my drunken daze
to find out she was long gone.
Still, as sure as I am that these trees
shall continue to bear these fruits,
I know that fear will soon return,
to break bread with me
and my stream of thoughts,
as we dream of flying colours,
and floating castles in the sky.
