Martha's backyard

Of all the places where we liked
To spend our time more was Martha's backyard,
Just behind her cottage,
We would there go every time
We paid our visit to hills,
And to her, of course,

Usually we would there arrive
At peak of autumn
When trees would start turning bare,
Their branches shooting up to the Sky
Like ribs,

At Martha's backyard
We always had company,
Of birds and butterflies and bees,

The scent from earth always reached us fresh
Specially in early morns, dewy drenched
Mist covered,
The spot looked like a land of fancy and dreams,

We would go there only to loiter around,
Our cries and shouts filling the air
Making it cheerful,
Making it depart from its usual ascetic silence,

We there ran , jumped , hopped,
Did somersaults even,

Our bodies fell on the soft wavy grass
Moss we got half covered with
Leaves oft got stuck to our pullovers,

Late in the evening,
When the hamlet turned absolutely dark
And sleepy,
When only distant hootings of owls
Could only be heard,

We would sometimes gather
At Martha's backyard,
And create log fire,

Some of us would break into a song,
Some would shake a leg,

And old Martha,
Knowing we were there,
Would come and sit on the cane chair,
Watching us with her eyes of grandmotherly affection and indulgence,

After so many years, when the world
Had got changed,
When the hill and its surroundings
Got changed too,

Martha's backyard still holds
The same magic for me at least,

Just to go there
And stand before those trees,
Just to go there
And embrace the mist and the fog
Of autumn ,
And to roll on the wavy grass,
Still carries every bit of Martha's generosity,

Still I could that feel.


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