To Earth

Poem by Shamik Banerjee

Mother, where did your verdant swaddle run:
on narrow gills, your film of golden press,
its wonted goodwill of the agleam sun;
the morn- dancers about my garden tress,
the weaver's tent under the rounded cope,
a Gannet's home above his chilly mount,
the sweet music fromwards a rolling fount,
at spring's garnering, a reaper's hope,
for the straying critters, a bush and hutch,
of fresh succulence from the brooding trees,
the new blossoming upon April's touch,
and oft recurrence of its friendly breeze?
 
Faded has the chirrup from terrace flocks
and time 'fore the evenfall's tint of blush;
old creeks have died along the river rocks
and traded them with peaks of alpine slush;
from your bosom, many breeds are o'erthrown
while some, for the clime of baleful hours;
but more, for his relish, when man devours,
he stubs the distances of heathlands grown
and which, in towering degree, erodes,
the pasturage for one and all away-
o'er housing roofs, the ginnels and the roads,
and its fertile toe, the suceeding day.
 
Where have you taken my childhood span?
You, unseen mother of eternity,
where I, alike a little springbok ran
to poise with the swimming wind and be free.
Even for a lapse, pants not your divine flair;
your greenery for us, its seedbeds plump
and yet, your blessing, unvalued we slump
but ponder not how unwell is your air.
We feast on you and man upon man lives
and thinks your charity will never ease,
and cares not for you, or sorrows or gives
but laments when your comfort comes to cease.

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.