Poems

Changla Gali

Silence.
Only the murmur of breath
from the valley.
Up here, the unworried air
 
rests among pines,
a mix of water and dense
greenness of leaves.  A mist
waits, cooling sun’s light.
 
The road which brought us here
moves along mute edges
of hills, a winding line
from lives left behind.
 
It pauses at the tea shop,
then follows visiting clouds
to the open window of sky.
 
The cottage welcomes
summer visitors
with a damp handshake.
 
Creatures of fern and moss,
residents of the house,
shift uneasily.
 
The house has no mirrors.
We see strange faces in the sound
of footsteps
and sense a hush,
 
the noiseless rush of water
through leaves moulding.
Amid the whisper of trees,
 
a new, unfamiliar calm.

Moeen Faruqi