The golden silence, of the cornfield,
moist in the early morning dew,
braces the margin of the bay;
in the fluttering breeze,- gay,
the tips toss in golden- green shield,
flourishing life's earliest loving hue.

The morning's soft whisper
gradually matures into a murmur;
the glistening ripples of the old river
burdens the breezy shimmer,
as its pining vapours float and perish
far into the helpless cloudy anguish.

The soft creased corn-field dawn
ripens into an ironed stiff morn,
a very brief clumsy romantic dusk
gets entangled in its flimsy husk;
its golden harvest goes for a dough, 
baked and consumed for the go.

The ancient night tells the stars
the tales of twinkling success,
avoiding the delicate regret
of not having kissed the green secret
of the forest's aromatic dense tress
while the twilight was still scarlet.

The prestine ripples relentlessly flow,
carrying the day's momentary sparks 
in an evanescent golden glow;
green gold of the primitive woods,
the evident winter shrouds
with its all pervading snow.

© Kakoli Ghosh

Published in the October’21 edition of GLOMAG.

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