Revdanda, encore

 

In bottled memories

I often look back

At the spangles

Of Revdanda’s gold –

You searching the past

In the Portuguese ruins

While I stared, at a cricket match

With the villagers

None of whom cared

Who won or lost

Content to be there

To feel Sunday on the breeze;

Perhaps they didn’t even care

For Sunday

Or the breeze

Mere words of the writer

To fill his story

You returned, urging me

To join you on the ruins

But I don’t stir,

I hold your hand

Look, here’s happiness

Within our reach

Revdanda’s ruins

Caressed by salt of sea

Can wait,

Rather, let us judge matches

Where we will always win;

In the melting golden spangles

Of Revdanda’s sands…