At Fairy Falls

 

A trickle, it was, of a waterfall,

For monsoon - this land has none

And yet I stand beneath her flow

On a cloudy day, bereft of sun

 

Why is it you come? She asks

Ye vagrant from a different land

What is it that you truly seek?

I wondered - would she understand?

 

‘You remind me of some older times,

Of the wistful land of clouds and rain,

I come here then, to eucalyptus blue

To shed a drop or two of pain.’

 

The water flowed, at Fairy Falls,

Silence else in Dante’s Glen,

Did I hear her sigh, she spoke anew

Strange is your love, ye pensive men

 

To scale these hills, to seek your past

When the past is seven seas afar,

But not for once, for a newfound love

That can heal and mend your timeless scar

 

Stay in your chagrin, tears in eye,

Walk as your hearts, in saudade burn

But come back once, come back twice

One day, you’ll find a newfound sun

 

 Come that day, with a purer love

Come to these hills for who they are

Come for her sun, her shadows black

Not for the love of a distant star

 

That day, these falls may be drier still

But the shrine will stand for you pilgrim lone

In your footsteps then, be fetters none,

In your cloudy day, nothing to mourn…

 

13^th August’ 2023

 

I walked to the picturesque hamlet of Lawson in the Blue Mountains today, making the short hike to the evocatively named Dante’s Glen and the Fairy Falls. Having seen deluge in the hearts of the Sahyadri, and frenzy in the foothills of the Himalaya years back, I was at first disappointed in the trickle of the Fairy Falls. Having dipped my toes in its cold waters, I looked all around to see mile after mile of eucalypt forests standing in their majesty, despite the dual melancholy of cloudy sky and traveller lone. Beyond the runoff, there was silence in the forest, and peacefulness in an otherwise restless soul.

 The Blue Mountains looked beautiful, the jungles of jade calm, and I was reminded that these have sustained over millennia, in a dried, parched, sunburnt land, despite the paucity of rains, and infertility of soils. Yet they stood - endurant, evergreen, expansive. This emotion made me turn around and look at the trickling fall behind me with newfound admiration. It no longer looked impoverished; rather there was profusion in its every drop that would run downhill for miles and sustain acres of abundance, all in the silence of the valleys that didn’t say much, yet have been writing songs for millennia. Who was I then, a yesterday’s poet to hum a note of judgment?

 I dipped my feet in the waters of the fall, and they felt more refreshing than ever…

Cover image: Author's archives