The Vacation

This is the place,
White, in summer.
A seaside decked in
Wedding lights,
A mountain clad
In happy woolens.
This is the place,
A vacation
On my desk.

Afternoon stars come alive,
With deep whiskey.
When was it?
Two, three, four years ago?

To think of it,
There were friendly kites too,
With them stars.
We had laughed aloud
From our green grass bed.

And there were women
On terraces,
Rearranging sun-dried pulses,
Like brushstrokes.
There were peddlers,
Screaming their wares.
Calling for plastic,
Selling ice-candies.
And we.

Behind shut windows,
Listening,
Seeing.
We never knew it would all too soon
Become a memory.
A festival of nostalgia
To be celebrated annually,
In poems,
Sometimes,
In newer
Vacations.

Alas it comes
On my desk.