Your wayward paths
are leftovers of those
trickling down rains,
sent umbrella hunting
with father insisting
take two, there will be more
but water scarcity continued, in a town
which had clouds hovering every moment, threatening to burst skies
with a downpour scattering hills, trees and flowers, which had hardly bloomed. Azure skies of my dreams, how you could change colours with guile,
like the wily chameleon:
blue, black, grey, red
and my metamorphosis reaching the pinnacle of heights.
