This morning, in Calcutta –
I walked the rain drenched paths,
swanked by lush green grass
over which varied tall trees
sheltered a multitude –
of gallant flowers and plants.

The eastern sun in gearing up
to display it’s spleandour and might –
over the torrential rain and lightning
that dazzled the August night;
peeked at me rhythmically
through branches astride:
as a Chhau dancer – showcasing his art
decked in a brilliant Gold ensemble,
grabbing my awaking mind’s eye.

White birds with sure yellow feet
hopped over puddle-drowned grass,
shoving their yellow beaks
into crevice and cracks
of fallen tree trunks floating as rafts.

Yet around these sights and
sounds of chirping that abound,
morning walkers rushed past –
indifferent to nature’s practiced dance,
oblivious to a painting
with words or a brush
forming in my minds eye –
of it’s own accord.

It’s a new day
that’s washed clean now
of yesterday’s dusty thought tracks;
awaiting my pristine mind
to collate all the numerous slides –
to form a kaleidoscope
of creative delight.