Marigold

Winter’s Kolkata,

Bleary, full of smog

I can smell the grey everywhere.

The sun has come up

Reluctantly,

But the pale, orange disc fails

To melt the December

Stubbornness

 

And then,

The dying marigold plant

On my balcony

Catches my eye.

It is the only actor

Perhaps even trying

To put up a fight,

Ah, the missing sun!

 

The leaves have shrivelled

I crush one

And smell the resistance;

A neighbouring shack

Lights a sooty black fire;

While I get some water

To nourish a dying fire…