Somewhere along the road
From Saswad to the Bopdeo Ghat
We stopped to buy vegetables.
It was late November,
mid-afternoon, warm in the sun,
cool in the shadows. The road
and the houses strung along it
and the fields green from the kharif sowing
and the low mountains beyond,
close to the east, more distant
in the west were, everywhere, peaceful.
Mid-afternoon of a short day,
I sat in the car and watched:
A cow grazing diffident
While an egret stop-and-start
Foraged for bugs in a midden
Or strutted aimlessly in small circles;
Lal mirchi spread out on a sheet to dry;
Two couples, arriving by scooter,
Meeting at a stall, conversing,
Departing in the same direction;
Cars passing.
I watch all this with interest,
A detached reflective mood
Coming from the earth itself,
Everything will move or pause
Exactly as it should – including me,
Or any who should be
In this place at this time.
I have lived such moments, long or short,
and unexpected cross the landscape
of my life: anarchic city streets;
suburban lawns, snow-molded;
a midnight lake that makes the sky
a jewel-encrusted dome;
rock concert in a sun-soaked park;
intense but friendly football
in weather too cold to stand still;
afternoons of cloudless skies,
cool breezes promising – paradise.
And while these moments live,
They are connected seamlessly
To those that came before and those
That surely follow, soon or late,
It does not matter: there is no time
Worth mentioning, to wait.
Patrick Redican 