In his crisp Sunday suit and bow tie,

He would leave for his morning tea.

Right below his apartment of years,

He knew the stories behind all those tears.

He would smile at the vendors,

And give a wave to his favourite  tea sommelier.

Before retiring to his usual place,

With a view of stories so numerous,

He would observe with his twinkling eyes,

Influencing his inspirations as he unravelled the tales.

In his head where the unknown giggled in shared secrets,

He wrote the story of a girl with yellow gloves.

With long scarlet red hair and a smile as wide,

He could imagine the sorrow that hid,

As the snowflakes danced from her shoulder to the ground,

He strained as much for a glimpse as he could,

Into the worries that had her troubled,

Was it a shallow promise that made her placid?

As hours passed by and snow thickened,

He bid adieu to his friendly hosts.

With a walking stick in his hand,

He counted the windows he had passed.

The girl was on her way to sit by the rivers,

Where music and meetings were celebrated.

Frail in his steps, he passed through the door,

Screams of quiet sadness in close quarters,

The yellow gloves gave way to forgotten tears,

As he remembered in despair,

For she was sad and he was afar.

Stuck in a flashback of sixty years,

When he was a young boy  all of twenty-four,

And she was a maiden who sold yellow flowers.

Published by Deepthi Suresh