A Sunday Morning

Time a dream laced slumber
roll past morning joggers
a nest of chirpy birds
serenade heart.
The extra wink of sleep
tucked in feathery flakes.

Tea brews in leisure
thirst in china glass tinkles
The newspaper shuffles
each sip turns an insipid tang
eyes gliding through murky headlines
‘Three year old girl raped—-‘
‘Farmers commit suicide—-‘
The serene Sunday morning disintegrates
Splintered, bleak columns.

Amita Ray is a retired Associate Professor in English and Vice-Principal of a college in West Bengal. She has several academic publications to her credit. An academic career spanning over thirty-seven odd years has given her the insight and critical acumen to engage extensively into literary activities and leave footprints behind. Read other articles by Amita.