At the Poet’s Birthplace

/ /

I and the other devotees stand
under a leaden sky. There is no sign,
only a plot of grass, brilliantly green
after rain, framed on the left
and on the right by a modest plank
house, fading paint, tricycle parked
by the stair, the empty lot between, ungiving.
Yes, a voice from the group confirms,
this is his birthplace. Our shoes encased
with mud, shuffling, we don’t know what to do.
A company of the wet and bedraggled,
we stand in a trance, staring at what’s not there.
We see shiny droplets blinking back at us
from the grass, and absence. Murmurs
of resignation.
……………………………From the heavy-laden
sky, a sudden slash of light, as if
hope itself had opened a silver-lined cloud,
and a face, through death etherialized,
cast blessings on the rain-soaked town
and the hill of scattered tombstones nearby
and on us, the devoted few—
…………………………………………………….a face,
moist with a hint of smile, looking back
from the black and white photograph there
on the back book flap of his Collected.