Toad Reloaded
From where I stand the shard gobs light: wind strokes my hair,
The evening sun falls sharply on serrated chimney pots as fields of bright white windows
Rush down to the Thames.
Behind their glare, the small folks twitch, dance to their masters’crops,tend screens, backs
Cracking like the women in a paddy field.
Just now I thought I heard a prancing maniac shriek:
‘Think what you’re doing, hold back, retreat’
But it’s not been a wonderful life
And no one comes now to dissuade.
As if they would.
Shuffle to the roof edge, feel like chucking up.
The toad work shat on my life: green, rheumy, mud-eyed, sad, surrendered, she scrabbles to
My shoulder now, hobble-aged like me.
We jump, and flying for the first time I can glance below,
Glimpse heels that need replacing on my shoes,
My pimply wearied socks, worn ankles hurtling down to smash and never mend.
I sense a rainbow colour leaching from my heart
At this one painful realized perfect act.
My first.
My last.
CAT
In straw July the animal, skin mouldered like old armchairs,
Patches of white mange more frequent than its fur,
Accepts no hand, no milk, refuses consolation.
Won’t let those bitten ears be stroked as lurking in parched grass, stock still, his morning
tiger eyes enflame the sun.
Illustration: Subarnarekha Pal
