Vishal Dutia

Through broken glass in blows a tune
A soulful, humming, ancient croon
Which purrs amid the humid gale
To bring old tales from up the trail
She shades herself on molding decks
And comfortingly waves and becks
The passers-by to pass beside
The shack of baccy hung and dried
Bewildered by her hoary hymn
The weary rovers float and swim
In pools of sweet tobacco toil
Sweating memories through the soil
Out from which sprout pillars of smoke
A ghostly choir who sing and stoke
Her cheery song toward chimney town
Who huff and puff and blow it down.

© VishalDutia