Under the Tamarind

15 May 2017

I remember mornings when my father sat
under the tamarind tree trimming
feathers, as he whistled

Sunday tunes coming from inside.
On those mornings I would look
through frosted louvre panes

as he nursed those fowls
in ways only a doting parent
could. And I would think

my mother right.
That man love those animals
more than his own children.

I remember him feeding them
things I’d never seen and examining
every inch of their reddening bodies

making marks and bruises go away
with iodine and a gentle rub,
which he never did for us.

But for all the time he spent
with them and not with us,
for all the care he showed them,

I never blamed him.
I learnt somewhere
that each man had his love.

He loved those animals.
I loved books, and him.

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