The clouds here aren’t lonely.
They caress hillsides, embrace trees, play
They lounge on the roads, rising lazily to let a car pass
Settling down again even before the tyres go around the corner.
They talk to the flowers, and play with the dogs
And, I hear, in partnership with campfires,
Disorient the birds in nearby Jatinga,
So that tribesmen can club them out of the air.
They laze, cradled like pet cats,
In the laps of high valleys.
Damp with promise, they leave traces of their passage
In the grass, and in the smell of the carpets.
The clouds wander here,
But it’s only me that’s lonely.
Peter Griffin is a Mumbai-based writer and poet.
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