THE PALLID PALMS

In the Orchard,

I see faces of Things

They whiz pass me       

In threadbare and slush nothing

I struggle for precision

As bone-dry limbs move round

In a labyrinth with an ominous ardour

Groping for clarity

They work with pallid palms

In shackles of stupor

Arrows of qualms hit their babish heart

When they were bamboozled and oust from their land

They are chided with lances ,thistles and thorns

When they saunter off dazedly by an intrepid opulent West.