Childhood. . .

I heard a sound, that came with birds,
it was a swoosh beyond my words.
it came as smoke on the town that slept,
but he was cleaning as he swept.

his motion was slow and clothes so old, but,
treasurer of contempt as his eyes told.
He came at dark and stayed till dawn
and in return he cleans ones lawn.

The sun on track and so were the birds,
the summer had started walking backwards,
I was late to school and rushing I went,
winking those days that i had spent.

A quarter to a century with the same sunlight,
the air, the birds and the cooling sunrise.
The trees are red and snow it may come,
for my kids that live and sing London.

Street so quite and lush of green,
my children urged me to make brownies,
I went inside and brought a spice,
they loved the malai and ate it thrice.

I asked them would they see me child,
they hugged me tight and packed like wild
and so now i was going to Bombay,
in years after my that birthday.

We reached in time of four o clock
and as we got down to my block
I heard that enchanted swoosh again,
my world again, my childhood stain.