on the grass in Lodhi Gardens
a lone woman with the days’ work strung about her
in a bag or two, and shades kept ready for the 5 o’clock sun
every muscle in her work-day body schooled
to appreciate the shortness
of this hour of rest.
her regular breathing takes its place, with the wasps
in a six centuries old window.
we watch. your six words disappear easily
in the darkness of this ancient bit of entombed air.
there are others:
middle aged women asleep, with children
on the stone floor.
bats perch invisible on some
ledge near the ceiling which is so high up
it is black and cool with echoes
look there, the green and yellow outside
and the long dark shadows where
our friends lie stretched beneath the tree
their loud voices somewhat softened by the sun.
shall we walk to them?
let’s, I say.
we trip down the steps of the tomb
cold and silent.
you have your camera,
I have my fears.
we follow dragon-flies to the drooping branches
take off our shoes