when it’s beating down

Beneath the towering peaks,

Tall erect trees and lush blossoming meads,

Sky larks soaring into the blue sky;

It’s boiling, seething up, erupting underneath,

deep down the burnt red-black sod of isle;

When the sea-mist drifts off

From undulating golden surface

to coalesce with grey fumes and ashes,

it patters on,

beating out an intense rhythmic tattoo;

Dance,

When your feet can’t stay on the ground.


Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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