matheran

its early morning
the wind gently
pulls clouds off trees
like a mother
peeling bedsheets off
from a sleepy child

then she picks up
the clouds
all swirling
dunks them
into the water
in the lake
completing the cycle

the wind appears again
drying up the trees
long after
the rain has stopped
creating an illusion
of perennial rain

church bells strike
cutting through the mist
bringing up the hour
not that time
really matters

an early morning walk in Matheran
is like being inside a Gulzar poem

paths that appear
and melt into each other
the mist
a constant companion
like memories
of friends
no longer around
of friends
waiting in the great beyond

(for Suhas)