Sometimes...
staring at these empty benches
I try to recall, where did I go that day?
Now, in this park I come often
to collect fallen feathers of rare birds 
whom I've seen never.
I take a quick glance
at the cardboard faces, talking, smiling,
passing by these green benches
through the autumn lane.

I hear the lotus lake lapping
just beyond the green wastebin.
I vividly remember the clanking
of the trailing away train, its tail light,
carrying you away from my sight
slowly and peacefully along the track;
the shining railway 
merging into the distant dark.
But where did I go then,
when, the sky dropped the curtain?

The benches count my feathers;
the crisp brown leaves drop faster
than the yellow ones, that escape grip
levitating unsure of how to waft dead,
where to go ahead, falling weightless.
A dead fish floating past the reeds
was caught by a dreamy eyed cat;
a flying kingfisher lost a feather
in its sudden flight to disappear.
Where did I go, still I can't remember.

©Kakoli Ghosh

Published in Glomag, edited by Glory Sasikala, March’22 issue