The colour of my skin

Rustles through the dried pile of silenced stock. 

The muffled footsteps crunch,

Crumbling past the threshold of that which is,

And all that is yet to be.

 

Curling up round the twisted edges of

The flaking remnants of Autumn’s memory,

The yellow blends with the rust,

The sepia loses itself in the orange.

 

Odd threads weave the cleaving leaves' final glory.

Its spidery skein 

unmakes the tender art of Summer;

Turning the bright hues to a wispy

Nothingness.

 

The weaver unspools 

The last threads of memory

Mourning, and waiting 

For the pale 

Shroud to take over

The colour of my being.

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Aishwarya Das Gupta teaches in Calcutta Girls’ College. She is a weaver of words who loves to recede into her bubble of silent dreams. She is an avid reader, lover of cinema and creative arts and if left alone to her own devices, may be found lingering under the shady bough of a lonely tree.