In Conversation with Winter

Call it my thoughtfulness or thoughtless mind to be talking to a season.

Well, we do talk with self and also to Nature, to Animals, to Birds, and, that’s nothing or something that is worrisome in life.

When January said…no Riddle no Game …Ride the Read for a Smile -- My Daily Write-up

When Months Giggle

…no Riddle no Game …Ride the Read for a Smile…

January asked February, why you stand behind me,

February said, I am short, I am stout but love the place I am in.

March jumped in and said, I am third in the line for I have been shunted here for no fault of mine,

April says, see the blooms when I come to bring joy with colours of season Spring.

May shows a sour face for the blossom time is going to fade,

June is angry with the sun that is hot when she comes.

July is funky holding no regrets for standing in the seventh spot,

August dares the previous months for the shoving down the line.

September is pleased to sing a song for Autumn’s haste to come,

October is sober and calm and does not like to fight.

November is happy to bring the chill to lighten hearts and human spirits,

December is the happiest to be last in the sequence of months.

People wait for the Calendar to come to read the dates and months,

What would have happened if there were no twelve months?

That Afternoon -- My Daily Write-up

The winter winds were blowing on that afternoon when I went all alone to the sea-side. The sea has always attracted me. This time, while others preferred an afternoon nap, I decided to walk along the long stretch of the sand along the beach.

The sun gave me company…as I felt the sun to be with me. There were so many others on the beach, but they were unknown. I enjoyed the company of the sun as it touched on me with the bright afternoon sunshine, giving me a bit of warmth on that cold November day. The sand had also soaked in some heat and was giving out warmth. If the summer’s sun would have been there, Oouch! The sand would have given the hurt to the feet.

The beach was like a fest of its kind. So colouful…people hanging around in clothes of different shades. People from far and near hounded the beach…some running into the water and then coming back, some inclined to go in for a bath but fear lingering in their minds. Children ran towards the gushing waves that washed the beach as each and every wave made the roaring noise to come forward but receded effortlessly without that loud sound. It was a sight to watch.

I stood at one place to see all that was going on between the people and the sea waters and then moved on. My destination was not motivated or designed, but I walked on with my footfall, forward and forward and forward and....

At one time I sat on the sandy beach and watched the waves…a creation even science cannot contest. Magical!  Up and down moved the waters, sometimes coming up close to my feet to soak them and create a different feeling in me. The blue waters stretched my gaze to the horizon, and beyond that what was there was a mystery for my eyes.

Fishing boats had gone in and moving about to get the catch of the day. How much these simple fishermen depended on their daily catch. Some days a good haul could give them lots of money and some days could cheat them from getting the good catch they had expected.

I looked at the sun from where I was sitting. The rays fell on the waters and the waves worked with it like conjurers. Soon the sun began to dip, a sight that said it was time for sunset.

Got up, dusted the sand that had stuck to my clothes and was soon back on my way. As I retreated, saw so many sand blocks made by children as they played while their parents kept a watch on them. I remembered my childhood sand house built on the beach to be washed away with the big breakers that came, for nothing is permanent on the sandy beach. Nature has its own rules and laws…am I right in justifying this?  Don’t know how correct I am but for sure it was a great afternoon spent with the sun, sand, the waves and the water.

That’s the magic of the sea-side.

Colourful Spring

This picture reminds of P.B. Shelley's line from the poem Ode To The West Wind -

If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?