Footloose On A Foggy Morn

By Thomas Thottungal

It’s early morn as I trudge my way

Along a lonely swath of road

That cuts across endless acres

Of fertile fields now clothed in bristle —

The vestige of yesterday’s bounteous crop.

Electric poles poke their heads

Against the hazy hollow heavens.

Alone a crow perched on a curb stone

Hopefully waits for the early worm

Unmindful of my un-warned arrival.

The season is done now, the harvest is in.

For months to come an arid spell

Is what awaits this land that gave

Bountiful bushels of wholesome grain

To man and beasts and birds alike.

All earth with bated breath now waits

For the monsoon blessings from up above

To sprout again in sprightly green

And celebrate the joy of life

With new-born vigour, and new-found hope.

Thus this wondrous world will whirl

Till Time runs out of slithery sand

And things return to the void that was,

Emptiness replacing all that stood,

Leaving just the Mighty One

Survive in sublime solitude,

And all else fading away to oblivion

Like redundant toys of a recalcitrant child.

Why create then, why sustain?

Why this painful sojourn called life,

Unless to sooth some sadistic streak

In the One who caused this all to be?

The answer I know not, no scholar am I

Nor pundit, philosopher or saintly seer.

But this I know: Today is mine

To live and love and laugh and leap

And share my joy with one and all

‘Cause yesterday’s gone, tomorrow unborn

What’s here and now is all I have

To put to use as best I can.

By Thomas Thottungal