I did not think of you even once today

as I roamed the trail, meandering

down the valley, pausing to smile

at an old woman gathering wood

her face as gnarled as the sticks

she carried upon her back.

The tea pickers smiled as I passed

marching by; too late in the year

for plucking tea, I thought, too late

for me to stop and ask. For the shade

trees pressed closer, the track wound up

and down in spirals, the moment wandered

And was lost. In and out of thickets,

I went, rambling, not really caring

as twigs clung to my clothes. Was it the sun

in my eye or were you standing there,

that famous blue jersey, camera

shouldered in your signature jhola?

Must be the sun in my eye, for the mist

rolled in, taking me by surprise

and I shook my head and smiled

turning back as you vaporised into clouds

and the darkened shade trees

stood silent, craning their necks to the sky.