Conversing over fields with pineapple laden borders

Embeds sonorousness in one's voice,

And coupled with gadgets, of a toddling-suckling familiarity,

Digs a clear tunnel through even a raspy telephone

My grandma opened the tunnel yesterday,

My mother at the other end, and I, only ears,

A by-listener, overheard the landline conversation

'The battery would be dead today, this may well be the

Last call for weeks.

Palm thrones of king dew lowered themselves to beggar domains,

Coconut trees on the bank had leaned in over the channel

As if erecting bridges everyway

Cemented steps descended into the channel,

The lowest could be seen two days prior,

Now even the highest had been swallowed by rainwater

Acres of rubber flattened,

Bar a score- odd strands on a balded head,

Land wasted, as rubber plantations do not reimburse Gaia.

Now, I won't see the endless stretch

Of rubber trees ejaculating in the morning,

Most probably tapioca and dispersed bananas

Prithvi's revenge

For drilling her sky and thawing her poles.

~Ajay

3/12/17

A/N-

We got a call from my grandmother a few days ago, telling us about the cyclone- Ockhi, which had ravaged our native village of Kanyakumari and brought life to a standstill, she described the scene in a sorrowful tone that prompted me to write this. the conditions, thankfully, are getting better day by day