"The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse

• The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused -" -- Philip Larkin

Kannamma, the water lilies have all died last night, in the first frost of a young winter.

On the floor your gold earrings shine, dully, in the dim morning light. Outside the fall leaves are buffed into further darkness by the trickling rain.

I am standing by your back alley door with my plumed breath and sack-hood. Pious ladies of the neighborhood curse me, indolently order me to shuffle off to another's lane.

Your lovers (or husband?- hard to tell for they are all the same to me) don’t seem to notice the ghost that hovers over their shoulders as they banter, or feast, or as they plant their flags of conquest.

The day is brightening, and priests are closing up on our Lord of the Seven Hills. I must have sinned for on meeting you, I didn’t shave my head in thanks. When will you wake up? When will you come out?

It has been years since that morning, Kannamma, when you wanted me to stay, and I had to go to her.

I had the ghosts of Bharatiyaar and AKR hover around me as I read this. It's so intense, and full of imagery. (The way I've always liked it...)

Beautiful. Beautiful. And Yes, Beautiful.

• Clome