For Aunty Jean

[a peradeniya kaviya]


A season of bloomage
colors that erase the shade
carpets that hide the shame
soft petal blades and
heart-cut histories
scripts that never made it
not to the Sarachchandra 'Wala'
not to the WUS 'Wala'
but slipped out of narratives

Peradeniya is a nation
re-birthed every twenty years
and every single day --
speed it up and it's a dust storm
from ashes to ashes
passing over immutabilities

Aunty Jean, now,
of Peradeniya
and yet, maker of that landscape
unknown to others
themselves creators, vandals and residents
she,
of earth curled in cinnamon
who played with received cartography
re-mapped the universities of belonging
she,
of word and the lives of things unnoticed
a fence, a boundary and other illusions
a cat, a growl and a plant forlorn
she,

of grace, vitality and effusion
drenching gatherings with words and mirth
and wiping off the stains the careless splashed
she,
who decided she would be 16 forever
and at will and whim
pick 45, 23 or 79
in her irrepressibility
would stay a curtain and detain the impatient
she,
who cannot leave

For her, there will be flowers

full bouquets of metaphors carefully picked
music drawn from abandonment
from an unfolding story
a treetop, the glint in young eyes
the edge of wine-glass cut

But for her
tonight
I've revisited Peradeniya
stitched together the exquisite
the most tender loves
silences that outdid shout 

and other things indescribable;
for there's a story
lost in the folds 

that never will be found.