The Thought Leaf

In my creative writing course, we all wrote a peom modelled after The Thought Fox by Ted Hughes. This is what I came up with.

I stare at the blankness
The blankness stares at me
I hear the clock’s tired whisper
And my quiet breaths.

Outside, cold air ushers people inside
And autumn leaves hover
Clinging to branches for their meaningless lives
Until one falls
And falls
And falls

I stretch my fingertips
Sure I will catch it
Nearly there, nearly there
Until a gust of wind whisks it away
And it falls
And falls
And falls away.

And I look back at the page
Stare at the blankness
As it stares back at me.

© Sohini Kumar

Dusk

The setting sun tints the sky orange, pink, purple. Wisps of clouds, tinged golden, drift serenely as the blazing orange orb slowly disappears between the trees’ bare branches. It is unusually warm; a slight breeze could suddenly nip at the tip of your nose but in its absence, the thin, fragile shawl of early autumn’s warmth could settle on your shoulders. If you raise your head a little and close your eyes, you can feel its delicate weight on your skin. In the background, the muted din of motors running. A horn here, some music there. The distant sound of chatter from passers-by. The faint fragrance of dinner being prepared close by.

The change is subtle and before you realise it, the sun has almost sunk between the branches. The breeze is a little icier. People walking along the streets pull their jackets a little tighter about themselves, tug their hats lower over their ears. In their homes, people turn the lights on and chimneys smoke as dinner is prepared. Sparkling specks of glitter appear in the sky, scattered across its vast expanse, as dusk settles.

© Sohini Kumar

Autumn Leaves

It is beginning to rain. The sky looks like a vast, thick layer of cotton wool – a grey blanket with glimpses of a grey sky underneath. Most trees are bare, or nearly so. Slowly, as night follows day, one by one, the leaves fall, swirling and twirling. It is notoriously hard to catch them as they fall; they seem to be going in one direction, but a small gust may push them off course. Some leaves still cling on to branches, unwilling, unsure, quivering in the wind. Their colours match the beauty of flowers, stained glass, glitter, and little spectrums made by crystals in the sunlight. But when they fall, they are trodden on, torn and caked with mud. Their colours are dulled, but beauty lies underneath. And the Earth will turn. As the sky sheds its grey cloak to reveal the azure underneath, and the breeze carries the fragrance of flowers, the leaves will return again, triumphant.

© Sohini Kumar