Village boy Impressions

Our favourite stream: Abelikpien It is an early morning, windy and bright  As I take a turn about this sandy stretch  Watching fishers draw their long nets  With straining muscles and clenched jaws  From restless waters breaking at their feet My heart stole back over the years  To our very own angling adventures  In the beloved intermittent brook at home  Wherein we bathed and played and fished  And in my mind's bright eye, I see a trout  Fluttering and dancing on a line.  Have you read:  The Mighty Abelikpien? Oft it comes about many a blazing noon That we hear the call of the stream And stealthily hasten to respond in glee Each one bearing a straight rod At whose end is tied the elastic nylon line That carries the latex or wooden float Which we rightly named ‘the gossip’ And the barbed hook right at the end Intended to impale hapless rapacious fish. In groups numbering one to many We sneak out for a nook at the brook Once snuggled

The day was damp and raw     And I was down in the doldrums But o n the sagging powerlines  Just outside my window I found two little birds in intimate talk As they spruce their feathers away With cute little beaks that tweet! They sat right next to each other With their little feet about the copper wire Quite immune to the power coursing within Chatting forever about heaven knows what. I wished I could understand their hearty talk So simple, so intimate, so beautiful! No Facebook walls, no Messengers, No WhatsApp, no Snapchat and emojis No Instagram and finger Twitter-ring No posts, no comments, and no tagging Just good old plain talk, eyeball to eyeball With little chance of misunderstanding And no thoughtless forwarding of garbage I sighed in envy of them and smiled… Suddenly the gloomy clouds parted  And the sun shone brighter than before. So my day was saved.

It is a topsy-turvy world this For not the doers that count Not the men in the arena Not those faces marred by dust and blood Not those who walk the path and stumble Not those who dare the mighty things Who win the glorious triumphs checked by failure Not those who spend themselves in worthy causes Not those who strive valiantly and err Not those who lie sleepless so we sleep Not those whose silent sacrifices keep us Not those who starve to fill us up Not those who die that we might live No, the credit belongs not to them Honour belongs not to whom it is due! Read - Village Boy Impressions - Walking Backwards It certainly belongs not to the shoulder shrugs Those feeble souls that recoil at life Poor spirits who neither suffer nor enjoy Cynical in thought and speech Benjamin the donkey pales in comparison Who see, hear, and knows but speaks not When the elephant treads the tale of the mouse. Who dwell in the grey twilight of tranquillity Who, fearing the