• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11


Sometimes, much depends
on what we do with what’s left behind.

There was a late winter afternoon
thinking of which the colour red
runs a riot in my mind.
The last holiday to the quaintest land
where men sit in the shade of the cactus
and the women wait by the open door.
You winked at me and pulled my hand
and we laughed down the long lane lit
by the long shadows of the dusk.
And then, returning, a routine visit
to the doc’s for a simple dull pain…

Medical reports are mysterious documents,
deceptive to the dot.

Now colours are in the things that I touch,
things that need keeping with a little care;
and I wonder
how different is my wait than the women
we hardly noticed them then, there.

Yes, much depends
on what we do with what’s left behind
though the red is much faded today
and the late afternoon sun
not so kind.