Just beneath

In the quiet desperation
Of a burdened mind
An unexpected conversation
Brings in light
A frozen platform

In an obsolete station
Yields a bench
Saying “Here, have a seat”

The little bud 
That remains blooming
Inevitably through
A rough, long winter time

An unadulterated shine  

In the eyes 
Of the street child
That shatters 
Glazed, apathetic looks
Of a claustrophobic crowd
Riding frantically
The harbour line
At the strike of nine

The shrill of a phone that breaks

An endlessly silent night
Uttering welcome words that enquire
“Have you been well,
Are you fine?”

There is a beckoning

In all of these
A call to honour
To unveil at ease
The grace of routine living
Offerings in everyday life