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The Winter That Never Came
A poem about the summer in November
November stands here,
A ghost month, hollow, bare.
No chill on the breeze, no nip to the air,
As if we’ve exiled winter’s prayer.
In Delhi’s heart, October lingered on,
Its warm breath sprawled long after dawn.
Old folks mutter of times so bright —
“Back in my day, the fog stole sight,
Morning dew on tulsi leaves,
A chill so sharp it made us breathe.”
But now the night only feigns cool.
Mornings mock us, stubborn, cruel.
Gone is the crispness, sharp and lean —
Where is the winter we’ve all seen?
Memories like smoke…
It was once a song that returned each year,
Of woollen scarves, of warmth held dear.
Tea stalls steaming in morning’s hush,
With hands wrapped tight around the cup’s flush.
Children huddled in a snug embrace,
And mothers fretting for sweaters, just in case.
