Every colour on Turner's palette
walks past the scribe.
I am still, not quiet, in ochre
and my mother's five silver bangles -
but the one I wanted to write about
was the white dupatta
which seemed to float
with a life of its own
© Shaista Tayabali, 2015
I found a bench tucked into an arch of pink and white morning glories, and managed to scribe a few secret poems under Bangalore sky. When they say India has beautiful colours, they only say the truth. Today, at the hospital, I was back to the blue walls and shadows, but part of me was still cocooned a thousand miles away.
secret poem prompt via a Hyderabadi dverse poet