The sunbeam in the tree

 

What is the sunbeam doing in the tree?

Just being playful with the leaves,

Struggling to escape their trap,

Feeding their kitchen fires,

Drying the paintings dabbed in fresh colours,

Or, drawing unsteady shapes on earth?

When clouds join the game,

Until the night swallows them all,

Each day is a story in excitement.

The grass under the traveller’s feet,

Isn’t however amused.

He has no fascination for sunbeam’s

         gimmicks, a needless distraction.

He has to catch a train

To go beyond these shadowy hills,

Not join the sunbeam’s shadow-plays,

The sun’s long hand notwithstanding,

An enchantment for a short day.

The sunbeam is itself,

The leaves are what they are,

The grass, a green innocence;

Why must the traveller

Tell an endless story

To be what he is?

 

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