Through a slight drizzle
on the side panes
of a speeding taxi in black,
I saw you for the first time
my pretty lady in a sun hat:
Of you I had dreamt for long
from images formed in my mind,
out of the second-hand novels I’d read —
clutching which over my Indian heart
I fell asleep feverishly, every night.
Tall over the sidewalks
you seductively strolled along —
the soft sun bouncing off
fresh flowers you hold on wooden posts:
As if it’s your slender, elegant frame
hoisting a classic basket hat.
You carried the enchanting fragrant beauty
of a summer garden of violet and thyme —
dancing lithely in the cool breeze
fresh and sublime.
It was through sparse early evening traffic
from Heathrow airport, one late June:
I first glanced upon you awestruck
my lady — London, the city of my dreams.
Then in a week, I was besotted by your charm —
you’re prettier than images I’d conjured
for years in my abject poverty lying awake
wrapped in your elegant arms:
dreaming of visiting you fervently
when someday I had money saved up.
The Indian cab driver cheerily pointed
sights en route to King’s Cross —
where I’d reserved a week’s Bed & Breakfast
across the road from the tube station:
also by bus or foot to easily get around.
I took a tube to the London Eye —
to get an eyeful aerial view,
a boat below the Bridge to the Towers, Greenwich.
Atop a Hop-On Hoff-Off Bus I rode daylong:
lustily stripping you my lady — on the catwalk.