The Slit in the Window
It was upon a
garden-tea,
I’d spent a few days
lone,
Me, Kanchenjunga,
and
The Universe unknown
For hours in my
cottage small,
I’d stare at spotless
skies,
The massif draped
in white of snow,
Unbothered by our
lies
And all around,
the garden grew
In camellia’s waves
of green,
Winter’s cherry snuck
in pink,
How colourful had
it been!
Perfect was it,
excepting for
A draft that blew
in free,
From a slit within
a window pane
That closed not
completely
An ever-present
companion,
It was all chilling-cold,
In silver, hung an
icicle
Upon my days of
gold
You could press
the window all you could
But the slit would
still remain,
The perfect views disturbed
with
A draft of winter’s
bane
I would often
wonder in those days
In evening’s
alpenglow,
Why the mountains
gifted eternity
With a niggling
wind of woe
The answer – as with
most of life
Came not when you’d
ask,
Dawn’s questions had
to swell
For epiphany in
the dusk
Months had passed,
I had moved on
To days of exile far,
Beleaguered, one
day, I looked above
Praying to a
southern star
A breeze passed
by, a draft of cold
And the first
thought in the mind
Were the painted
mountains faraway
From days left long
behind
Could you ever ask
for a better salve
Peace for minds
all frayed,
The mountain
memories calming you
Guiding those who strayed
And every time, a
draft passed by
In summer, autumn’s
way
A calming memory rose
again
From a winter mountain’s
day
I can only smile
at the tricks of life
That often seem insane
,
Teaching why imperfection
stays
Through a slit in
a window pane…
1st
September’2024
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