What atavistic memory

( from the primal forest)

Led the coconut tree

To press her  long green fingers on my terrace -top?

Did she imagine that she could compete

With tower-blocks, glass and concrete?

And the crow who’d made the best

Of what I’d discarded-

Who’d built a nest

All plastic and wire–

Did she think that she could aspire

To my red-tiled roof and glass façade?

By my beach-house the wavelets sweetly curled

But out on the ocean a cyclone whirled-

It sucked in winds from every side

And roared as it landed on the incoming tide.

The tiles on my roof ripped off and clattered

On my lawn, as my glass panes shattered.

I could only wait and pray

As the cyclone moved away.

Outside, the tree that had bent before the storm-

Had sprung back straight ,with no permanent harm!

And there between its branches- its very crest-

Still intact , was that old crow’s nest!



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