FIREFLIES

One April evening I saw the dance
of fireflies. Small smoulders coruscating
amidst the gnarly boughs
of an old Indian Almond tree, which fell
to a cyclone a year later. By then the fireflies
were already gone. Beyond the tree,
over the marshy fallow land where
wading birds come and go, because
they are tough enough to withstand urban clutter,
the fireflies disappeared. In a wink.
I think of them when I look up. But even the stars
are veiled these days.
The moon has dulled to a pewter shade.

I walked a mile to reach the lake
where the water weeds struggle
for the right to be, each summer.
The sun was about to sink when I met
the lake’s cracked lips. The gloaming
was like a ghost haunting plaintively.
The air was so sad and still.
And then I saw it. A light. A spark. Vanishing
as quickly as it had appeared.
A pinprick burst. Then another and another.
Bouncing around in the gloom.
The tiniest of holes poking through
the new born night’s skin. Mesmerised I stood
there. Like a tourist at a resort built
near a temporary habitat for migratory birds.
My footprint a dead weight tied to a noose.