MORNING OVER FORT MADHOGARH

Clack, clack, clack breaks

her village like beescomb, awakes

the sun god, Surya.  Still treadling dark,

young Hindu girl.  Dare she

dream the kingfisher weave,

silky azul?  Even the banyan tree

stretches legs for parabolas

of parakeets where peacocks mewl.

And in dung-fed fields, orange saris gild

mustard seeds.  After school, she buckles

yet to her station.  Fluent in shuttle

solely, tread imperceptible,

deft.  Among stoops of elders

rapt in village talk, card players

hawking gustily, her father

warps at gouging a wedge

of droughty mud to fathom lake’s bed

or burning rubbish and dead

dog.  Pig’s work, eh?  Under kite’s eye,

threading the brokered marriage day,

his larki clacks blind duty.

                                                Michael Small

February 11-March 21, 2009