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!