On the terrace, on a lazy Sunday morning, as I stand breathing petrichor, with an approaching storm, my attention suddenly gets diverted, hearing a faint whistle. What happens next?
Image: Gomathi Mohan
A lazy Sunday morning, Langorous and yawning. Dark outside, charcoal skies at large, A storm brewing up, ready to in barge.
Morning’s walk ruled out,
A quick shower, up and about.
Alone on the terrace, enjoying the cool breeze,
Sudden chillness forayed, making me freeze.
Drew in deep long breaths of fresh moist air,
Soil bathed in water, effused an earthy fare.
Drizzle turned to showers, forming tiny puddles,
Hurried under sunshade to hide and huddle.
Rhythmic rain beats when I heard a faint whistle,
Followed by wisps and some sizzle.
Curiousity won and led me to the edge,
Looked down the window, open at the ledge.
Dark and ebony, a knight in shining armour,
Sat regally, seducing her with glamour.
Soft and snowy as freshly whipped butter,
She fell headlong, with a nervous stutter.
Looking at him coyly, with shyness she shook,
Turned away unable to bear his piercing look.
He took her in his arms and wetted her with kisses,
Caressing her with sighs and audible hisses.
So much affection, getting too hot to handle,
She feared melting, in his arms like candle.
Flipped over with cheeks moist and glistened,
Tossed out burnished and richly crimsoned.
Too tempting to resist, I turned to go down,
Wife caught me watching, looked up with a frown,
Waving I said, “Coming down in a while,”
“Unless you want it cold”, she said with a wry smile.
Have already missed breakfast.
Could do with some brunch,
In this weather who wants lunch?”
Would’ve guessed by now, it’s no Sumerian riddle,
Was looking from above at a shining hot griddle.
Hissing when ladelled with white creamy batter,
Sizzling to jazz up with the rain’s pitter-patter.
“Making crispy pancakes with rasberry sauce,”
Wife stood orating with not a single pause.