Fences

By Raima Joseph

My grandparents' home,

On a narrow street did lay.

Every single day,

On that street did we play.

Fondest of my memories

Were all moulded therein.

To my childhood it gave

A sweet little contribution.

Whenever we indulged

In games like cricket,

People who walked by would

Help us take out a wicket.

They would join us, at times,

To play and laugh with us,

To take a break from adulthood,

And to get away from the daily fuss.

People, while taking their

Usual evening strolls,

Would thoughtfully warn us;

"Mind the potholes!"

Children would often run across

Gardens of different homes.

There, we played games like Hide-n-seek

While standing as still as garden gnomes.

I recall walking through those gardens

And lending a helping hand

To my friend's grandmother,

As she put clothes out on the stand.

We leaped above bushes,

As though it were a hurdle race,

A race through the gardens

Avoiding the keeper's annoyed face.

Those gardens, that once

Connected houses, connected lives

Are now separated by fences

Painted solid or with stripes.

Lesser number of people

Now walk on those streets,

The gardens have beautiful flowers

But no one hides behind the trees.

That street that once

Was open to all visitors,

Has two gates at its either ends,

That trapped us as prisoners.

By Raima Joseph