What are those sea-sounds?
Not the wailing of the sea.
Not little Meera, begging for ice-cream.
Not the wind flapping the trees.
Not the growl of tribal hounds.
Not the finger-snap of an ingenious pianist.
Something, something more rhythmic and quick,
under the slices of mud and silt,
Under the violet of the sea.
As the sun peeks at the crack of dawn,
The sea sings and sings along.
Small dabs of orange, purple and red,
Suddenly they sprinkle across the sea bed.
As for the bird they burst into song,
Could there be anything prettier than dawn
As the sun stretches to the clouds,
Those, those are the howling sea-sounds.
