Wednesday, August 28, 2013

The Colour of Winter

The colour of winter that year
Was one to be talked about.
Endless unwavering brown.
Clouds wispy in the sparse sky.
The farmers’ wives beat their breasts.
All for a drop to quench
Their parched thirst that grew.

The colour of the rings that
Sarath exchanged with the
Unsympathetic pawnbroker was gold.
He had counted on the
Winter monsoon to repay his debt.
He’d hoped for his own gold
Lining the fields.

The colour of the plate
That glinted empty before him
Was steel grey.
Oil stains dulled by the
Lack of food on it, his stomach
A meal a day
Hardly necessary.

The colour of Sarath’s skin
That shrunk around his bones
Was a vibrant brown.
A strong man was he.
The first month wasn’t bad.
He was almost getting
Used to it.

The colour of the rope
That Sarath slipped around his neck
Was bristly.
It took two weeks
For the farmers’ wives to find him.
The clouds remained
Unrelenting white.