Amita Ray



                                                                       
Communion

I dare not disturb the cosmic serenity
lounging languidly in this vale,
I stop and drink in the beauty
trance like the moments fly.

Dense is it with lush antiquity
filigreed against the blue sky;
pine and birch rooted, filter forked light
on the moistened carpet of moss and ferns.
The crickets chirp monotone
the hush of wind chips in,
butterflies bask, a whistling thrush checks in.
Vagrant wisps of cloud
 bathe the mountains intermittently
the sun in humble submission
gives in to the inroads
only to resurge in full splendor.

A cataract trickles down the gorge
I sense a tear drop kiss my cheek,
a floodgate opens, emotions deluge
A wetland in my soul.






                                                                            
Perhaps

The morning sun a blurred disc
in the somber ochre sky,
a faint crescent moon
slumbers in the arched cradle
lulled in forgetfulness perhaps.

Alone she waits in festooned longing
each morning spurs
a bruised blaze.
Flustered ache descends unfailingly
the promise of her beau
soothed in oblivion perhaps.







                                                                             
The Axe

I crane my head, look up at the aligned towers
Plush coops termed apartments;
then glance down to where I stand
the once home to birds and insects
in the lush lap of verdant green.

Beneath my feet
I can hear the sprouting sapling
Gasping for breath,
the whimper of trampled seeds
foliage decimated.
The trees standing tall and plants impregnated
rend the air in in mute helplessness
to each fatal stroke of the axe.

In my heart
I can feel the terrified flapping of wings.
evicted from Nature’s fold
unsinging happy notes,
groping their way in displacement
to new nesting space.

In my mind
I dislodge the towers
Brick by brick, coop by coop,
scoop off the groomed groves,
Nature’s own saplings re-sprout
Seeds explode to swaying trees
Vie with each other to reach the sky.
Birds come surging and singing
Bees in honeycombs, pollen in flowers.

The canvas complete
I bury the axe to rest.


                                                         
Amita Ray

Amita Ray is a retired Associate professor in English and Vice-Principal of a college in West Bengal. Her career spans over a period of thirty eight years. An academic of varied interests she is a translator and short story writer.She has translated into English Abanindranath Tagore's KHIRER PUTUL which was published in 2018. Many of her short stories have been published in popular web magazines and The Sunday Statesman.. She also writes poetry which have been published in Glomag, Setu, Dissident Voice and other  online magazines.