THE RIVER’S DRIFT
R. Y. DESHPANDE
Much depends upon the river’s drift:
The paddy-green or the bird-song,
The bankless solitude of love,
Or behind the bright poppies
Gleaming images of the unborn child.
Changes in the night-sky are swift:
Sometimes, thrust from one arm,
A million swords pierce the clouds;
Sometimes the tiger-months pour
Relentless flames as though
The dark woods of death were burning.
The unruffled sea is a precious gin.
River, I love your landscapes
Bringing sounds to quietude
When these timeless mountains
In your delight faraway drift.