Within The Wine Bottle Green

Moss ressurects this old world.
The post monsoon walls
wear wine bottle green,
can hike beyond the boundary
and the century my grandfather’s dreams
built the dwelling. The wall will leave,
and so will the entire ground floor.

The windows will stay holding the sky
and those adventitious roots of a tree
not quite banyan. My mother holds
one of the corroded ribs of a casement.
Her skin is sunset. The wind
sounds like her laboured breathing.

Kushal Poddar