Going South

Prosaic today.
Voluble, but not in terms of
yellow sky, the sky-roof opened
not the men working, bending
quietly in paddy fields, the hot
coolness of mandapams
once you step on the baking courtyards
of those vast stone monoliths. Not
the Brihadeeswar whose galleries
still resound with shrieks of delight,
mine. Not the way of life
where you open a plantain, spread rice,
and wear just a shirt over trousers,
and think of better things.
Not the cardamom in air as I cross
the border, and enter into tea gardens
split from hill to hill, and then I
realise why I am prosaic today.
I am going south.