She’s an early riser, the Delhi fog –
dousing the sun with a sleeping pill.
Her arms long come crawling to me,
as watching I sit by the window sill.
She paints the lane a canvas grey,
the shivering bush shadowy turns.
Watchmen huddle in misty groups,
warming their hands as a fire burns.
Into the quilt she creeps in untold,
the pillow bathes in dewy smoke.
To the door she lends a playful kick,
the forgotten clothes in velvet soak.
And then it arrives – a random streak,
of the grand sun now up and about.
The drug used up and slumber flown,
he brims with sublime fury and doubt.
She packs her bags – the velvet stuffed,
her wet hair up in a tight, hurried bun.
Flees away she does from human sight,
as the sky glimmers with the winter sun.