Oolong

Morning fog lingers 
until it burns off. 

The arrival of clarity 
entailing, ample time. 

He enters a labyrinth 
of tea plants. Nothing here 

is linear: neither roots 
nor paths, nor the murals within 

the temple of coiled serpents 
or the elephant tusks 

ornately carved 
like the instruments of gods. 

He knows that he’s nowhere, 
to be found, but doesn’t

mind. The air 
is fulsome with dew. 

He pauses before
a path-side shrine, where

ghee was freshly dripped 
on a faceless stone divinity 

that gleams with the sunrise, 
as he, within 

this life, aches  
and sometimes does. 

Peter Marcus | One Day, Mahabalipuram
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)