Four short poems about the narrow / meter gauge railway. The memories of mountain railways in the quint towns of the Himalayas. .
The sky was stained with the blue of berries
on that peppery winter noon,
when we sat on that small wooden bench,
outside the teashop overlooking the valley,
watching the toy train slowly trundle past
the pines, conifers, and flaming rhododendrons,
the hot masala chai melts all our inner strife
in a fragrant rhapsody for the time being.
The narrow gauge waits among the shadows
and lattices of light like a poem uncoiling
into oblivion, spell bound.
In the soundlessness of the falling snow
I listen for a heartbeat no longer there,
the silence too strong for me,
just like the tea from the old teashop.
The edge of the rain slices the ruddy sun
with delicate knife like precision,
and turns one side of the valley grey,
on the sunlit side the shivering green
tries to cling to the fading light,
the wind snores, shifts, snarls,
rain filled clouds clamber up
towards the mountain peaks,
in the valley below, a lone train crawls through
the dappled grey whistling its old song.
A wayward brushstroke,
on a spring-like pallet,
the little mountain train,
along the wandering waters,
Past purple Jacarandas,
into the valley of yellow and gold,
and then you see a little town,
tumbling down the forested hill,
there and gone again,
losing its way
in the mountain’s mist
and the steam from my tea.
Fist Published in Knot, a biannual web based magazine published by Kristen Scott from Marmaris, Turkiye .