The past is a tumbledown monument,
Red stones of which litter the lawn
And in solitude, contemplate of a whole.
Each while at peace with itself,
Wonders still where it did fit in!
They are as puzzled as I am.

Like a smitten tourist, I often return
And am miffed to find the plinths tanned
And decay sprouting from crannies.
I clamber upon the rubble-tombs
Wreathed with dried grass – a meagre victory;
Or briefly nap against the belfry-wall.
Once in a while, I turn my gaze
Over a familiar brick and try to remember
What it meant to me. Perhaps,
It was placed there by accident.
A random event.



FOOTNOTE: I wrote this poem from my memory of the ruins of St. Augustine’s Church in Old Goa.  It remains one of our best family trips ever.



EDIT: So delighted to tell you that ‘Ruins’ made it to the Top 100 poems of the Wingword Poetry Competition 2018. 😀 😀


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